While Tarke didn’t own a compact disc player, she appreciated the discs were transcriptions of music of the past in a way that digital music files were not. A physical copy of the music had a life of its own. Scratches and bumps were reflections of its journey through the great expanse. And in these stacks, Tarke looked for something specific—something transplants of Beramuda, or any place for that matter—would enjoy. Creating in the stacks only one major landslide and two minor vibrational disturbances, Tarke found what she was looking for.
James Taylor.
Yes, if any singer-songwriter could get them off Beramuda, it would be James Taylor. No one could resist his dulcet tones and ability to tell a story within a song. Tarke collected the stack of compact discs in their plastic cases. Somewhere, she’d be able to sell these Earth 1970s folk music classics remastered on compact discs of the Earth 1990s and save the day, and the ship, and later, Frankie. While in her spare wardrobe, Tarke changed into some rust-colored shorts held up by rainbow suspenders and a lime-green tube top. She rounded out the outfit with giant round sunglasses, partly because Beramuda was tropical, partly to hide the tear stains below her eyes.
#
Despite never having set foot on the planet, she found Beramuda felt familiar. The volcanic islands teemed with fertile soil, robust flora, and polite resistance to industrialization. Fruit-bearing trees sprang here and there, uncultivated but population-sustaining nonetheless. A quick glance at their Craigslist showed the planet also teemed with ship-trade. It seemed the Atalan wasn’t the only ship to sink into fissures of Beramuda and require parts to make their exit. Passing Steve’s Bar was almost too much for Tarke, but the knowledge she had no cash and only an armful of CDs to trade hurried her along.
If Richie of Richie’s Revered Relics and Rejuvenation Day Spa was surprised to see a Cardalol enter his store toting an armful of plastic ancient Earth artifacts, he didn’t show it. Instead, the gray-mottled pinniped cleared space on the clear acrylic counter with one of his flippers to examine the movables. Richie sifted through them awkwardly, sending one CD clattering to the floor. Tarke placed One Man Dog back on the counter to the mixed reactions of a polarized audience. Richie motioned for her to wait, and stepped away to make a phone call.
Within the counter case, several valuable items were on display. The skull of a sleek, armored Ohor rested on crushed velvet (or an excellent replica thereof—of the velvet, not the skull. The skull was very real.) In poor taste, the shopkeeper had displayed an unopened eucalyptus-flavored ring pop inside the beast’s mouth (the poor taste being the fact that it was eucalyptus-flavored, not that Ohors didn’t enjoy a good ring pop). Elsewhere in the display, several dusty tomes in languages unknown to Tarke were splayed open, revealing the first steps in a potion, a spell, or a three-course meal.
The little ring of the bell on the door announced someone else had arrived in Richie’s store. It must have been the person Richie called, because Tarke swooned and collapsed at the sight of James Taylor entering Richie’s Revered Relics and Rejuvenation Day Spa.
“I didn’t know I still had that effect on people,” said James Taylor, scanning the ground for panties.
Somehow, James Taylor had fallen victim to the Beramuda Triangle like Tarke, and here he was, held together with Botox and scotch tape. Also, it was just his pickled head in a jar, resting on a beverage cart.
“Wait, you want to buy your own music?” asked Tarke, pulling herself off the ground. She covertly brushed her thumbs along the waist of her shorts to confirm that her panties were indeed still on.
“Of course, everyone likes James Taylor. It would be nice to have the compact discs. My agent had a couple of concerts distributed on laser disc. Do you have any of those?”
“What are laser discs?”
“Never mind. What are you asking for the compact discs?”
“These compact discs have their original shitty plastic casing three-quarters intact, appropriately aged sleeve notes, and have all been autographed by the artist himself.”
“No, they haven’t.”
“Well, they could be,” said Tarke, not to be deterred.
James Taylor’s head gave a little tilt to indicate the beverage cart where his hands should be.
“You can put a pen in your mouth and sign them,” said Tarke. “Don’t tell me you’ve never signed something to make it more valuable so you wouldn’t have to hand over real money.”
James Taylor laughed. “I haven’t dealt in anything so basic for centuries. My royalties collect royalties. Also, I assume my cost of living is rather low. I’m a head in a jar, baby.”
“A million EGRL then?”
“Mevix no. I’ll just stream myself on Spotify.”
James Taylor shook his head in jagged motions to turn inside his jar. Now with the back of his head to Tarke and Richie, the beverage cart began to roll toward the door. Apparently he did deal in basic.
“Wait, five EGRL apiece.”
“You got it, baby.”
So, Tarke and Taylor came to a deal and figuratively shook hands. Literally—she rudely patted him on the top of his jar.
As Tarke counted up her earnings, she realized she’d need a few more ancient pop stars to show up before she could buy the parts needed for the ship.
“Do you know if Miley Cyrus lives here?” she asked Richie before he tried to sell her a 45-minute hot spring soak.
“You might as well enjoy a soak. This place is like Hotel California,” he said.
ELEVEN
After the ship emergency-landed and no one had blamed or yelled at her, Gail decided to keep that streak going by not telling anyone about her most recent interaction with her family. It would be OK. Gail would call them and explain. And no one would drag her away to spend her artificially lengthened life safely tucked away, where her most dangerous missions would be to walk across a wet floor, and balance hours of virtual knitting with the potential for digital screen burn-in.
There were no trans-dimensional payphones in IGA grocery store parking lots to call her family, like when she was a kid. No grocery stores at all. However, there was an open-air market where she was able to trade some heavy-lifting for some time on Mindspace Comic Chat, a mod of an ancient IRC in which avatars appeared in comic book panels and their text messages as speech bubbles over their head.
It was apparently the only app this particular merchant had for intergalactic communication.
When DoctorHurtMD joined the chat room, there was a flurry of censored curse words—else, Fala had a stuck shift-key and was typing mathematical figures.
Finally, Fala’s first clear message was, “I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.”
Really? Because she sounded very angry. The woman’s lioness avatar furrowed its brows with each message. Gail felt the roles had reversed. She was being yelled at for doing wrong by her children. Also, the lioness avatar didn’t help. It felt like Tarke was bearing down on her.
“We spent a lot of time calculating the proper distance your cruise ship would be from any family, and you’re just going wherever you please? We only had your safety and our leisureliness in mind.”
“Wait, you don’t even know where I am, or if I’m OK after that call dropped. You’re just upset I’m not where you put me?”
“Of course we’re worried, but at least that paperwork will be way easier.”
“Okay, that’s fine. Could you let Barbara Junior log in? I have some computer trouble that I need her help on.” She wasn’t about to ask her daughter for money, even if it was her money. She’d make money on her own. Well, more of it, on her own.
“Sure, but you wouldn’t need her if you had stayed on the ship. They have dedicated IT people to come and plug your spit back in when you have technical difficulties,” Fala typed back.
“Hey grandma, what do you need?”
Barbara Junior’s red fluffy cardinal waddled into the panel.
“Well, darling, I am trying to sign up on Exty.
It won’t take my email address.”
“It’s really easy, grandma,” said Barbara Junior. “All you have to do is think about your email address with the L4 quadrant of your brain.”
“I’ve tried, but it keeps misspelling it.”
“Don’t think about the spelling, you’re not actually inputting it into the computer. You are connecting with the command functions in synergy with your memory storage just like I’m not typing into this IRC.
“Back in my day—” started Gail.
“Okay, I see where your problem is. I was able to re-create it on my side. Your email address is already being used on this website. Did you sign up and forget?”
“Well, I’ve been told that I am forgetful for an old woman, and also that sometimes I get blackout drunk and buy weird spit—”
“Whoa, whoa, let’s save the discussion on alcoholism for another day,” interrupted Fala’s avatar, shaking a stethoscope—an odd object for a lioness to have. “You already have an account because I created one for you. I have been using it as a sales platform for all of your hand-made, knitted, and crocheted, products—I mean, gifts.”
“So you have been selling all of those things I have sent to the children?”
“It is not as bad as it seems. You know, they’re not even hand-made. You don’t have your original hands.”
“You just said that the products were hand-made.”
“Well, it’s a marketing thing.”
“So, when you opened this account for me, you have been sending me or the cruise ship the proceeds?” The words sat over Gail’s avatar—an ancient woman in a Hawaiian print shirt with a selfie stick in one hand and a Mai Tai in the other—while the bubble above Fala’s head indicated she was thinking.
“Not exactly. I figured you would want it for Barbara Junior’s college fund.”
*Barbara Junior has left the chat,* announced the next panel.
“Why would I want to pay for Barbara Junior’s thirty-first year or beyond?”
“It is not the same as when you grew up, mom. Barbara Junior is slated to live several hundred years. She will need a strong education and proportionally, the standard thirty years is too short.” Dr. Hurt quickly changed the subject. “Why do you need money anyway? Have you been gambling?”
“You know I don’t do that. I just sometimes buy random crap and forget about it.”
“I told you we were not going to talk about that.”
“But gambling is okay? I need the money for a part for my ship. I am still waiting on the royalties of my latest asteroid sale.”
“Your ship, you say?”
“No—I mean, I guess.”
“I guess that multi-level marketing thing isn’t a scam.”
“It is no such thing. Are you going to give me a portion of the Exty proceeds or should I fly my ship to come see you?”
“A portion, you say? I think that could be arranged.”
“Yes, of course, how else will little Barbara Junior spend hundreds of thousands of dollars right out of primary school?”
TWELVE
Seven consultations and half of a Green Goblin Elixir later, Patav had sorted out her feelings from all the others she felt, which was a difficult thing to do in a bar full of wanderers.
The crew of the Atalanta Empress was scared. They were sad. And, they had been dumping it all on her. She thought if they’d all take ownership of their emotions, she wouldn’t feel so awful. To her dismay, the feelings she owned were just as self-righteous and screwy as everyone else’s. If they had been pushing their emotions on her, she had been doing just the same.
When the next potential customer arrived at the bar, Patav understood Lorav was leaving this one to her. If one were to freeze the frame now and ask Patav what communication had actually transpired between the two, she might say, “She told me,” even though she didn’t. Or, “She gestured.” She didn’t. And that was what was odd, but very very good about the triplets.
Whatever meld of metaphysical aspects clung in the air, the Catali approached and addressed one triplet only. “I heard you’re a mind reader.”
“Me in particular? No, you didn’t.”
“See, but now I know. You’re a mind reader.”
Ironically, Patav didn’t know what to think. Also, she wasn’t sure if that’s what the Catali had said. She leaned her antenna closer, not because it had anything to do with hearing, but she needed all the help she could get. The Catali were minute beings with long, thin limbs. The whole creature could be mistaken for a well-proportioned twig. Patav could probably hold it in one of her hands, but it would be rude to mention such a thing. Catali vocal cords clicked with their robust native language Cantonese, but it wasn’t Cantonese. This one wore one of the tiniest universal translators in the universe, although it was probably normal-size for a Catali and the speaker output left something to be desired.
The woman had an aura of mild concern, which could have been due in part to the anxiety of approaching a stranger.
“I am not a mind reader, not in that way. If you tell me what’s going on, then maybe I can help.”
The Catali took a more relaxed stance on the bar. She stomped one foot to call up an order of espresso. “My life got flipped-turned upside down—”
“—I just am not sure if I should follow him to the other side of the volcano.”
Patav thought for a moment, or more so she didn’t think. She cleared her mind and considered the emotions surrounding her. It took a moment to separate her own emotions from those of the Catali. When she finally was able to, she realized the Catali didn’t feel much of anything.
“It is dangerous to make decisions based on our emotions. But our emotions are an important indicator of what pushes and drives us. If we only did things logically or only did things emotionally, we might miss out on some great adventures.”
The Catali was quiet for a long moment. Patav wondered if she had said something wrong, but she knew she hadn’t.
“Logically—it doesn’t make sense to upend my life. I like where I am. Emotionally, I should want to go, right? But I don’t want to go...”
“You don’t have to.”
The Catali offered her a consultation fee into her Mindspace bank account.
She went to say, “I don’t need that.” But that was the emotional response, not the logical one. Lorav bowed in gratitude. The Catali bowed in admiration, then quickly left to tell all of her friends.
THIRTEEN
Quaja hadn’t known Beramuda’s relative position to a relatively active star lent itself to severe radiation belts, else she would have recommended further precautions taken to distance or protect the ship. Had Frankie been on board, she would have been able to identify the dangers and direct the ship from them. Course, had Frankie been on board, they wouldn’t have had to go deep into Microlutions territory...
From the hadn’t knowns, Quaja knew their ship wouldn’t have been the first to emergency land, and guessed there’d be a market for aftermarket or after-landing parts—or at least a junkyard.
Stepping from the metal grates to the planet’s grass with soft blades and prickly edges sent a sensory burst up her tentacles. The root system was dense, intricate fibers intertwining. The rebound of the grass played with each tentillum. She stood in front of the ship’s open cargo bay for more than a few moments before remembering she wasn’t born in an outbuilding. She secured the ship and chose the route with the most textures toward her goal.
Many tactile adventures later, Quaja found the after-landing junkyard behind one of the larger active volcanoes, as if they’d adopted an out of sight, out of mind policy for their cosmic Bermuda Triangle. And there was much out of sight—a wonderful collection of previously space-faring spacecraft of all different eras from many planets. Before Quaja could decide there was absolutely no organization to the place, a pale bipedal figure emerged from a particularly stationary space vehicle. By leaving the vehicle’s door ajar, the human indicated he’
d been raised in a barn.
“Wow, a Kieron,” said the human, speeding up to normal human-walking speed. He had removed much of the hair on his face, and what grew on the top of his head had been cut short. His sleek khakis and white polo shirt were in sharp contrast to his location—a greasy junkyard. “My name’s Brian.”
“Hey Brian, I’m looking for navigational, weapons, and main board controllers for an Xavier-class ship.”
Brian responded by grooming himself. He ran his hand through his hair to see if anything had fallen into it. He brushed non-existent wrinkles off his Aeon No-DOW™ polo shirt, an expensive brand of dirt-, odor-, and wrinkle-proof polos which had priced itself out of the market for those required to wear polo shirts as work attire. This outfit had been custom-tailored, and the khakis were no doubt equipped with Anti-Crack™, Muffin Top Elimination™, and Never-Show-Midriff™ technologies. Whether he had purchased the clothing or had murdered someone of his exact bodily dimensions and stolen his clothing—one such incident had forced Aeon to ditch the tag line Outlasts the Toughest Murders™ if only to avoid additional grand juries determining culpability—the man seemed fairly well-to-do. Under his non-grooming arm, he’d tucked the half-open housing case for a Class8-a3, gyroscopic coupler with humidity and compression sensors.
“You’re on a Xavier-class ship,” he stated, stressing his differing pronunciation of the name. “I thought all Kieron were corporate employees. What courier ship could afford you?”
“Oh you’ve never heard of it, and they don’t even pay me.”
“So how are you going to pay me?”
“I could help you with that coupler for a start.”
The human’s hair above his eyes rose.
“The one under your arm,” she clarified.
“Oh, yes.” He used both hands to fumble with it. “I’m trying to dismantle this Class4, gyroscopic coupler with hydrostatic sensors—”
“—but you don’t have seven extremities?”
“You could say that, but I’m very good with the ones I have.”
Atalan Adventure Pack: Books 4-6 Page 10
