A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

by Edward Zajac

  He bolted across Deyton Street, narrowly avoiding a magcar in the process. Or, to be more specific, the magcar narrowly avoided him in the process. But Zagarat paid this brush with death no mind. He was more concerned about the razors of death running after him.

  He made it across another two streets, the thugs becoming a faint blur off in the distance, when Zagarat ran into a wall of sentients exiting the Zenon Theater. Evidently, the matinee showing of Aeron Gossen’s classic, A Tempest in Winter (which for anyone who doesn’t know is about a tempest in winter), was just letting out and the patrons were now rudely littering the sidewalk, impeding his hasty retreat.

  “Excuse me. Pardon me. Excuse me,” said Zag, edging his way through the throng of theatergoers. After everything that had happened before, it seemed like the least he could do.

  But when Zagarat glanced back over his shoulder, he noticed that the thugs had no such concern for their fellow sentient beings. They barreled through whatever or whoever was in the way, gaining ground with every step they took.

  “Aahh!” screamed Zagarat as he turned a nearby corner, hoping to lose his would-be assailants down a side street. He sprinted with all of his might, keeping his head low as if trying to lower his drag coefficient.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The thugs were nowhere to be seen.

  Zagarat turned back just in time to see the brick wall he was about to hit. Out of sheer reflex, he turned sharply, taking the brunt of the impact in his shoulder. He tumbled back and onto the ground, his right arm burning in agony.

  Zag quickly scrambled to his feet and looked around. He was in a sunning alleyway. He edged his way back up against the wall, his agony subsumed by utter terror. He was in a dimly lit sunning alleyway with no sunning exit.

  Just then, three dark figures appeared at the end of the alley. They stopped and turned, the middle figure slamming his fist into the palm of his other hand.

  Well, it was nice knowing you, said the devil on Zag’s shoulder, topping his head with a plaid boolen cap as he wheeled a red plasticene suitcase over the horizon of Zag’s imagination.

  Don’t mind him, said the angel. I’m sure everything will work out just fine. On a completely unrelated note, do you know any other neurotic techs that are looking for tenants right now? I’m just asking for a friend.

  Zagarat sighed, slowly resigning himself to his fate.

  A magcar turned in the distance, casting three enormous shadows on the wall behind the trembling tech. It looked like a classic scene from Bayool Zence’s film, The Rim of Oblivion. Of course, if it had truly been a scene from the movie then the villains would have been wearing black fedoras and the hero would not have been trembling in place, clutching his grocery bag to his chest as he muttered to himself, “Please leave me alone. Please leave me alone.”

  The thugs drew closer, the sound of speeding magcars echoing down the alleyway. Thug Number One stretched his neck, cracking his knuckles as he approached. Thugs Numbers Two and Three followed on his heels, their eyes set on their prey.

  All that was missing was some ominous music playing in the background.

  Thug Number One grabbed Zagarat by the shirt and pulled him in close. “You’re mine now, little man.”

  “Please leave me alone. Please leave me alone,” Zagarat muttered on a continuous loop to himself as if pleading for the universe to intervene on his behalf.

  Thug Number One cocked his arm back, sneering as he clenched his hand into a tight fist. “You’re going to pay for what your friend did to me.”

  “Friend? What friend? I don’t have any friends. Please, just leave me alone.”

  Thug Number One’s nostrils flared as his hand, as his arm, as his very being trembled with rage. Zagarat closed his eyes, clutching the grocery bag to his chest as he braced himself for the inevitable. The inevitable pain. The inevitable blackout. The inevitable inevitable. He braced himself and braced himself then braced himself some more.

  And then the strangest thing happened. Nothing happened. No pain, no blackout, no inevitable inevitable. In fact, Thug Number One let go of his shirt without uttering a word.

  For a few moments, Zagarat remained perfectly still, constricting every muscle in his body in the off chance that the universe was playing an elaborate joke on him. When it seemed that she wasn’t, Zag timorously opened one eye.

  At first, he didn’t see anything. Nothing but darkness. Then he looked down and saw Thugs Numbers One, Two, and Three lying motionless on the ground.

  “Um,” said Zagarat, confusion slowly subsuming his fear. “I’m sorry. What now?”

  The thugs did not respond, nor moan, nor stir in the slightest.

  Trembling, Zagarat gazed about the dark alleyway as if searching for something, anything that would make sense of the senseless. That would explain how he just…

  Thug Number one groaned ever so softly.

  “Oh, fellot,” swore Zagarat, jumping into action. He leapt over a recumbent thug and darted towards the road, all the while shouting back at the thugs. “I’m really sorry for what happened to you at the bar and… and for whatever the suns just happened here. But I really had nothing to do with it and I hope you believe me. I gotta go. Bye.”

  And with that, Zagarat was gone.

  Once the tech was long gone, a man stepped out of the inky darkness, his eyes ablaze like two cobalt flames in an eternal night. He stood there for some time, silent and still, sidearm in hand. He secreted the gun away and retrieved a comm from the recesses of his coat.

  “Hey, beautiful. I need you to do something for me. No, I don’t need a cream. That rash cleared up all on its own, thank you very much. I need you to comm me through to Bryce’s office. Tell him it’s about our little project. Thanks, beautiful.”

  There was a long pause and then the sentient male smiled. “Hello, Bryce. How wonderful to hear your voice again.” He made a face. “Now, is that any way to talk to an old friend? An old friend, may I remind you, who saved your gimlets on Bylar Prime.” He nodded. “That’s what I thought.” He threw his hands into the air. “Why do you always assume the worst? Maybe I just called to see how you were doing? Did you ever consider that?” He rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay. I do need a favor. I need one of your techs for our little project. He works at your Lerandan branch. I think his name is Zag, or Zahahat or something like that. He’s about five foot three. Plump, but not fat. He’s got shaggy brown hair and pale white skin, as if he was allergic to sunlight. I’ll send you a vidpic.” He paused. “No, that’s it.” He nodded. “So you say. But if I find out that you had anything to do with Galustay, I will not be kind. Is that understood?”

  His brow furrowed as he squinted in bemusement. “Of course it’s a threat. How else could you possibly take that?” There was another pause. “Well, I’m not any other sentient. I’m me. You would do well to remember that. Just make it happen, all right? Thanks, beautiful.” He grimaced. “Sorry. Sorry. I thought I was talking to somebody else. Although, that reminds me, say hello to your wife for me. No, the other one. The one with the soft lips and the huge…” His eyes grew wide. “Sorry? What? I can’t hear you. The comm recept… mu… be… ba…”

  He quickly severed the connection and slipped the comm inside his coat pocket just as Thug Number One began to stir. He walked over to the groaning thug and lifted him into the air as if he weighed nothing at all. He then pulled the thug in close and said, “We need to talk.”

  he Magi Scenic Harborside Apartments were very oddly named. First of all, the complex was nowhere near a harbor. Secondly, the Magi Corporation never owned it. Thirdly, there was very little about the place that was scenic. It sat in the middle of a once vibrant industrial area, surrounded by abandoned factories and storage units. The only thing truly scenic about the place was the view from Zagarat’s bedroom, especially now that Mrs. Arnos had sold her apartment to a striking young Bylarian who liked to walk around her apartment sans clothing.

  Mrs. Arnos had often done the same th
ing, but with much different results. To this day, Zag could not walk past a Lerandan shar-pei without shuddering slightly.

  Zagarat walked inside his apartment, carefully shutting the door behind him.

  “Did you get the milk?” came a voice from the living room.

  Zag shook his head. Suns, that woman had incredible hearing. His mother could still hear his tummy rumble from a hundred yards away. Or so it seemed.

  “Just putting it away now.”

  He placed the carton in the refrigerator then poured a pink concoction into a plastiglass mug as a classic song by Stan Heitz Awfol played over the speakers. Although Zag was loath to admit it, a part of him actually liked Awfol’s light, jazzy compositions. While he was no Ohan Metzler Gunt, Awfol wasn’t half bad. The rest of him instinctually hated Awfol’s music because it wasn’t from his generation. Anything more than twenty years old was automatically trite and passé, while anything modern was instantly trite and soulless.

  But the music of his youth, that was true music. Soulful, rhythmic, numinous. For obvious reasons, his mental firewall often filtered out those less than stellar offerings like, “Whoo, Whoo, Whoo, The Solar MagCar Goes Whoo,” “Climb The Volcano Until The Lava Flows,” and, “Damn, Girl, You Make Me Want To Do Things To You (But Only If You’re Willing And Able Because Otherwise That Would Be A Felony).

  But the rest was really good though.

  Zagarat found his mother sitting in her recliner, her knitting needles clicking in time with the music. While most sentients knitted with a particular design or pattern in mind, Margarat Cole seemed to follow the AOOM Style of Knitting, allowing the universe to flow through her fingertips and manifest itself in whatever form it chose. Evidently, today it was choosing to manifest itself as an amoeba or an amorphous blob of some kind.

  “Zagarat,” said Margarat, holding up her knitted creation. “What does this look like to you?”

  “A sock?” said Zagarat, venturing a guess. “Or maybe a scarf. Is it a scarf?”

  “I have no idea,” said Margarat. She shrugged. “Eh, we’ll just say it’s a doily and call it a day.” She dropped the amorphous blob of yarn into her lap, resting her hands atop the knitting needles. “So, tell me. How was the party?”

  “It was all right,” said Zagarat, sitting down in the black, moid-leather recliner. He placed the mug on the opaque plasticene table between them.

  “All right?” said Margarat. “That’s all you have to say? I need a little more information than that. Did you at least couple with some hot fem at the party?” Zagarat let out a groan, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Unless, of course, you’re otherwise inclined. Some sents like a footlong sausage while others prefer to eat a box lunch. I’m not here to judge. I’ll love you no matter what, just so long as you give me grandchildren.”

  Zagarat chuckled, not only at the comment, but the wide grin on his mother’s face. That was one of the things Zag always loved about his mother. She was a perpetual joker, never taking anything too seriously. His father, Zalid Cole, had been a perpetual worrier, always taking everything way too seriously. Zagarat was the perfect amalgam of the two; a perpetually joking worrier who always took nothing way too seriously.

  Even at the age of seventy-six, Margarat had a vivacity that astounded Zagarat. Her brown hair was still lush and dark, streaked with only the slightest wisps of gray. Her round, pink face was lined with wrinkles and yet her eyes shined like starlight. At least, they did before the sickness. Now, they only glowed on those rare good days. This seemed to be one of those days.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” said Zagarat, “but it was just a boring party.” He quickly appraised his mother from head to toes. “Well, you seem to be doing well today.”

  “It’s true,” Margarat admitted. “Today actually wasn’t that bad. It looks like that medicine might actually be doing something, besides assaulting my taste buds.”

  “I told you it would work. Doctor Je-oh is one of the foremost experts on Lerandan Neurosclerosis. But it only works if you actually drink it. Did you take your medicine today?”

  “Maybe,” said Margarat, looking away.

  Zagarat sighed. “Mommen, you said it seems to be helping.” He pushed the mug closer. “So, please drink this.”

  Margarat swiped the mug from the table. “Oh, you think you’re so smart using my own words against me. You don’t know how lucky you are. Most mothers my age just sat their ken in front of the vidscreen all day. But not me. I read to you, taught you everything I know. And what did I get in return? A smart, handsome son.” She shook her head. “Well, I won’t make the same mistake again. I’m feeding my next child lead-lined elden chips and sitting him or her in front of the vidscreen all day. And don’t think for a second that I’m too old. I’ve still got some life in these hips here. In fact, Edelin across the way offered to test out my new mattress with me.”

  “Oh, would you just drink the mixture, you old crone,” said Zagarat, trying to sound authoritative, but the smile on his face and the lilt in his voice surely belied his efforts.

  Margarat stuck her tongue out at him and made a petulant face, but drank the mixture nonetheless, grimacing at is acerbic taste. “Ugh, that stuff is vile.”

  “That’s how you know it’s good for you,” said Zagarat. “Isn’t that what you always told me? Or were you just talking about your cooking?”

  “I just said that to explain my cooking.”

  “Well, then that was some of the healthiest food on the face of this planet.”

  Margarat grinned, slipping the glass back onto the table. “I still don’t understand how you can afford all this.”

  “I told you, the Dysone Foundation is paying for it all.” Well, they were supposed to, thought Zagarat. But when that fell through, I had to get the credits by another means. “Now, stop worrying about it and just be happy it’s working.”

  “I am,” said Margarat, softly. “Thank you.” Zagarat flashed a quick smile. “I mean it, thank you. Thank you for putting up with me and taking care of me. Not a lot of children would do that.” She lightly tapped Zagarat on the back of the hand. “You’re a good son, Za-”

  Her words were suddenly cut short, subsumed by a gargling sound, her hand apoplectically rapping Zagarat’s hand as if sending a coded distress signal he alone could hear.

  Zagarat recognized the signs instantly. He leapt to his feet, knocking over a table as he hurried to his mother’s side. It wasn’t just her hand but her entire body that spasmed uncontrollably. He ran his trembling hand up and down her arm, searching for the medipatch.

  Please tell me you didn’t take it off, thought Zagarat, feeling his way up her left arm and then her right. Margarat hated wearing the device and would often remove it when Zagarat wasn’t looking, which would always infuriate him. It reminded Zag of a Lerandan saying which roughly translated into Universal as, A sentient is a child twice: at the beginning of life and at the end of life.

  That seemed absolutely true with Margarat.

  As he ran his hand along her collarbone, he felt the outline of the medipatch against her skin. But she was still trembling. Why was she still trembling? Did the patch malfunction? Did he forget to replenish it? Was that what happened?

  He gazed wildly about the room. The syringe. He had to get the syringe before…

  A long, raspy breath suddenly escaped Margarat’s lips and she grew ominously still. Zagarat’s eyes watered as he imagined, for the briefest moment, the absolute worst possible scenario; that his mother had succumbed to the disease before he could help her. But then he saw her chest rise and fall rhythmically and Zagarat’s entire body sighed with relief.

  Suns, that was close, he thought, collapsing at his mother’s feet as the dulcet tones of Awfol’s hit song, “A Flower for Eena,” sounded overhead. For a moment, he thought he had lost her. But he couldn’t lose her. Not now, not after everything he had done to help her fight this horrid disease.

  Zagarat shook
his head. Lerandan Neurosclerosis. His mother had Lerandan Neurosclerosis. It wasn’t enough that she had lost her husband of twenty-one years to a cerebral hemorrhage and had to raise a neurotic son all by herself.

  No, now the universe decided to also give her Lerandan Neurosclerosis.

  The memories were still so vivid in his mind. It all started when Margarat stumbled slightly while walking down the stairs. She waved it off as simple old age, but then, a week later, Zagarat found her lying in the middle of the living room, unable to move any of her limbs.

  He immediately took her to the hospital where, after hour upon hour upon hour of tests, the doctors determined that she had Lerandan Neurosclerosis, a neurological condition that slowly rots the brain.

  “Well, that can’t be right,” Zagarat had said. “You said it slowly rots the brain. My mother hasn’t had any symptoms until today.”

  But the look on Margarat’s face told a different story. Reluctantly, she admitted that she hadn’t been feeling well for some time. She just hadn’t wanted Zag to worry unnecessarily about it.

  So, Zagarat began to worry necessarily about it and immediately studied up on the disease. The vids were so gut-wrenching that he stopped after the third vid. And sadly, there was no known cure. A few medications were reputed to retard the disease, but they only worked in five percent of all patients. Zag ordered the drugs nonetheless, even though it cost him nearly half of his savings. And, just as he feared, the medicine did little to slow the disease.

  In fact, it only seemed to make things worse.

  That was when he learned of Doctor Je-oh and his groundbreaking research. According to the Ferali Institute, his research was showing great progress. So such so in fact that he was able to effectively “cure” twenty-eight patients with his treatments.

  Zagarat immediately got on the comm with the Ferali Institute. After weeks of comm tag with various operators, secretaries, and infuriating bureaucrats, he finally got through to the doctor who assured him that the treatments were still an option, so long as they acted quickly.