The Garbage Chronicles (14 page)

CHAPTER 9

Two objects can be the same and

different at the same moment.

If you doubt this, compare an

apple and an orange.

One of the Timeless Truths

Earlier, after Prince Pineapple watched the pear men guards escort Javik and Evans out of the king’s court, he turned to face King Corker.

“That will be all,” King Corker said. He rose and padded out via his side door.

Prince Pineapple remained where he was. Holding Wizzy up to eye level, he said, “I hope your captain does well.”

“Eh?” Wizzy said, lifting the lid of his cat’s eye to peer through the clear agate dome on top of his body.

“I was hoping that your captain does well. Tonight. In the games.”

“What do I care?”

“I just thought—”

“Pipe down, will ya? I’m so tired I can hardly keep my peeper open! A growing comet needs his rest, you know.”

This remark surprised the prince, for he had no idea up to that time that Wizzy was anything other than a talking mechanical device. But the prince said nothing of this, remarking instead in a gracious tone, “Of course. You can explain all that to me later in my apartment. It is quiet there, a place where you can rest.”

Wizzy did not respond.

Prince Pineapple felt Wizzy shudder on his palm. Then Wizzy emitted a gentle snort. Soon he was fast asleep, snoring and wheezing.

Prince Pineapple snuggled Wizzy against his belly and thought of the day’s strange events. He considered discarding Wizzy somewhere outside, but decided against this.
The king must not be alerted in any way,
he thought.
I make my move tonight
—
Wizzy or no Wizzy.

Deep in thought, the prince carried Wizzy out of the castle and along the narrow trail that led to his apartment near Sacred Pond. Low Vesuvius shrubs lined the trail, with occasional roots across the path that he had to step over. Cork’s three synchronized suns were dropping quickly below the level of the horizon, casting yellow-orange tones against a swirling cloud layer to the west.

He climbed a low hill, from the top of which he could see Sacred Pond. The scroll bubble was barely visible, giving off low light in a fog mist at the center of the pond. Giraffe-necked trail lights flickered on as the suns disappeared from view. Prince Pineapple shivered, and for the first time became aware of Wizzy’s warmth against his stomach. Wizzy glowed faintly red in the diminishing daylight. Unknown to the prince, Wizzy was in the midst of a data retrieving dream.

Wizzy’s an odd gadget,
Prince Pineapple thought.

Wizzy whistled like a teapot, then chuckled in his sleep.

The Sacred Scroll of Cork,
Prince Pineapple thought, watching the bubble appear brighter as the abyss of night enveloped it.
I must try for it tonight. While Wizzy is asleep.

It occurred to the prince that Wizzy might be dangerous to him, sent by Lord Abercrombie to prevent him from learning the secrets of the Magician’s Chamber. Abercrombie had the secret and wanted to keep it for himself. Or Wizzy might be an agent of the king: an elaborate setup.

I must be on guard,
he thought.

Later that evening, Prince Pineapple sat in a rocking chair in the darkened bay window of his apartment, looking down on the black murkiness of Sacred Pond. The scroll bubble was not visible from here, being completely enshrouded by fog. In the yellow light of a giraffe-necked trail light below, he saw sheets of wind-driven rain pounding the waters along the shore. At the edges of the lamp’s upside-down bowl of light, curls of thick fog drifted like ghosts agitated by the light.

He glanced at a gold and brown pillow which lay on the floor in a slice of light coming in from the bedroom. The pillow was imitation Persian, with just the proper combination of rips and worn threads to make it very valuable. Wizzy was asleep there, his lumpy body swelling and subsiding with each breath he took.

Prince Pineapple turned to look back out the window.
Like a blanket over the pond,
he thought.
The fog rolls in each night like a blanket.

He envisioned the Sacred Scroll of Cork sleeping peacefully at the center of the pond, untouched by Fruit hands. His pulse quickened, and he felt hot pineapple juice rushing through the veins of his neck. His head throbbed.

He closed his eyes in an attempt to reduce his juice pressure.
This is not the way I want to go,
Prince Pineapple thought, thinking of the recurring nightmares he had of dying from a burst juice vein.
“Keep calm,” Lord Abercrombie tells us in our dreams. “Let a Decision Coin reduce the pressure . . . reduce the pressure . . . reduce the pressure
. . . ”

Touching a finger to one side of his temple, he felt the throbbing subside. He grew calmer, dropping his arm to his lap.

I’d better go now,
he thought, watching the rain.
Doesn’t look like the weather will break.

The prince rose and tiptoed past Wizzy. But in his haste, one of Prince Pineapple’s feet caught on a tuft of carpet. He fell roughly, causing a lot of noise. He swore under his breath.

Wizzy stirred. His lumpy body stretched one way, then the other. This was a molecular transformation possible only in the Realm of Magic. Any scientist will tell you that cold stone is not pliable.

“Can’t you keep quiet?” Wizzy asked angrily. He tipped his cat’s eye toward Prince Pineapple.

The prince was struggling to his feet, cursing himself for his stupidity. “A thousand pardons,” he said.

“None of which are accepted,” Wizzy said. “I feel terrible . . . aches in every chem-bond of my body.” He sniffled, then felt something strange taking over his respiratory system. “Ahh!” he said, breathing in deeply. “Ahh . . . ahh . . . ahh-choo!”

Shaking his head sadly, Prince Pineapple muttered, “He’ll never go back to sleep now.”

“What did I just do?’ Wizzy asked.

“Huh? Oh. You sneezed.”

“Sneezed?” Wizzy glowed red, searching his data banks. “I have a cold?”

“Perhaps.” The prince leaned against a wall.

“Do you have anything to treat such a condition?”

“Aspirin. But you have no mouth. Besides, you’re a mechanical being, not at all similar to me or to a human being.”

“You’re laboring under a misapprehension,” Wizzy said, changing to a deep shade of blue. “Use a knife to scrape powder from the aspirin tablet. Sprinkle me with it.”

Prince Pineapple left the room for a moment, returning with a knife and an aspirin tablet. He did as Wizzy requested, kneeling over him and scraping fine white powder over his dome.

Wizzy glowed orange and became molten, thus absorbing the aspirin into his magical system. “Thank you,” he said, cooling down and changing color again.

“Go back to sleep,” Prince Pineapple said.

“With all the commotion around here? Are you kidding?”

“I’ll be quiet. I think the sleep would do you good.” He straightened and folded his arms across his chest, looking down at Wizzy.

“Since when are you my guardian? Everyone’s always telling me what to do.”

“I was only . . . ” Prince Pineapple paused in mid-sentence. He sighed. “Well, I think
I’ll
take a nap anyway.” He returned to the bay window rocker, pulled a knitted blanket off the chair back, and slid into the chair. He covered himself and closed his eyes.

“Hrrmph!” Wizzy groused. He buzzed halfheartedly around the room. Then, as Prince Pineapple watched with one narrowly opened eye, he settled back on the pillow.

Prince Pineapple shifted to get more comfortable.

“You want to hear about me?” Wizzy asked. “I’m a baby comet, you know.”

“Some other time. Let me rest.” He kept one eye open narrowly, trying to conceal it at the edge of the blanket.

“First you wake me up and then you want
me
to be quiet while
you
sleep? That’s a fine thing to do.”

Peripherally, Prince Pineapple looked out the window at the diagonal sheets of wind-driven rain. He heard trees squeak together from the force of the storm.
Sacred Pond will be rough,
he thought.
Maybe the wind will subside.

“Funny thing about you,” Wizzy said. “I pick up thought waves from humans. But from you, nothing.”

“You can read thoughts? Unspoken thoughts?” He sat up in the rocker, staring full-faced at Wizzy.

“Not yours, dear Prince. Nor those of your brethren. Perhaps you have no brains.”

“No brains?”

“Well, not much in the way of brains anyway.”

Prince Pineapple leaned forward, dropping the blanket to the floor. His eyes were bird alert. “Not much in the way of brains, you say? That may be true of the others, but I’ll have you know I am in possession of a marvelous brain.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. My red star crystal sensors” are quite sensitive—although not yet fully developed. You’d think I would receive something from you if you had a decent brain. Just a hum, mind you . . . or a few garbled thoughts.”

“I am capable of more than garbled thoughts!” Prince Pineapple jumped up and paced the room. Presently: “Lord Abercrombie tells us to use Decision Coins for all matters. If my brain is damaged, it is from disuse.”

“That is possible. Entirely possible. Now why don’t you relax? I’ll tell you a little about how I came to be here.”

Prince Pineapple, sat on a shabby brown and yellow couch against one wall. “And how will I comprehend such things?” he asked. “Not having a decent brain and all.”

“You do sound rather intelligent. Perhaps my sensors need adjustment. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

The prince glowered, thinking,
Maybe he’ll talk himself to sleep. I have a good brain. I use it all the time.

The Orgy Building comprised one large, rectangular room with bead curtain doorways at each end. The room was full of partying humanoids when Javik was shown in by a Manno teammate. Nearly everyone in the room wore an electroplated purple badge, signifying conspicuous bravery back on Earth in the face of a disintegrating product. The bulbous-headed Mannos and Wommos swarmed around drunkenly, filling up nearly every square centimeter of space available. There was no music. Despite this, many partyers twisted their hips, swaying to unheard tunes while clutching drinks in tall glasses. It was like an Earth party in some ways, but distorted.

“After you’ve eaten from the kill,” the Manno at his side said in a characteristic monotone, “find a Wommo bitch and take her in one of the fornication rooms along the wall.” He pointed through the crowd at a row of red doors set very close together along the opposite wall. As Javik gazed across the room, he became aware of movement overhead.

The ceiling of the room was tinted glassplex or heavy glass, substantial enough to support a throng of Corkers and other Fruits above. They kneeled and peered down at the Earthian party, their eyes open fully in frenzied fascination. Most of them were gathered over the fornication rooms, where they pushed and fought for better views.

“They enjoy watching all our Earth games,” the Manno said. “Fruits don’t engage in our form of sex, you know. They grow in orchards and vineyards. When they’re ripe, they simply fall off.”

“No fun in that,” Javik said, smelling what he thought was roast pig. If spoken to an old acquaintance, these words might have given the impression that Javik was his old womanizing self. But Javik did not feel the words he uttered. They came automatically, as if from a politician’s voice tape. He was hungry and angry, hopelessly out of synch with his surroundings.

“Excuse me,” the Manno said. “I just spied a delectable, if you get my drift.” He sauntered off, wading into the crowd like a bee going for pollen. Soon Javik lost sight of him.

The room was divided into Manno and Wommo sides, with blue and pink banners designating each camp. On each side were banquet tables covered with red and white checkered picnic cloths. The tables held barred cages from the fallen fighter cars of the day, with the dead and unfortunate pilots spinning inside on spits. The cage bars were black now, having cooled. As Javik watched, tackle sets over each table lifted off the tops of the cages, exposing the humanoid roasts. The spits stopped turning.

To Javik’s horror, the throngs moved in on the humanoid food, tearing off jagged hunks of cooked flesh which they stuffed in their mouths. Animal sounds shook the room: growls and snarls, sighs and grunts of satisfaction. The tables rocked as hungry humanoids pulled at the roasts from all sides.

“You’d better hurry,” a Manno at Javik’s side said. “We only got one kill today.”

Javik only stared. Hunger pangs tore at his stomach. Cannibalism. It was beyond belief.

“Say,” the Manno said, moving in front of Javik to look at his face. “You got our kill!” The Manno limped as he moved, and carried a deep gash across his abdomen. Black letters stamped on his forehead indicated that he was a Product Failure victim.

Javik looked away.

The Manno grabbed his arm, pulling Javik toward the Manno banquet table.

“Wait,” Javik said, his voice feeble. He offered little resistance.

“Hey, guys!” the Manno yelled as they neared the swarm at the table. “Save a piece for this guy. He got our kill.”

Stepping to one side so that Javik could get through, the Mannos greeted him with smiles that dripped meat juice. They patted him on the back and pushed him forward. Javik’s hunger-starved nostrils tried to convince his brain that the strong aroma was roast pork. Then he saw it close up: a shredded female body with great pieces of cooked brown flesh torn away. The body was more dead than the dead, for it had died twice: once on Earth and again on Cork. Javik told himself that it should never have lived, if this was to be the end of it all.

“Eat,” someone said, thrusting a piece of breast meat into Javik’s quivering hands.

Javik held the meat unsteadily, staring at it in horror. This was being forced on him. He had to eat it. That made it all right, he told himself. A dull hunger pang tugged at his midsection.

The Mannos turned their attention away from Javik now, resuming their demonic gluttony. The animal sounds increased.