The Garbage Chronicles

by Brian Herbert

  AmFed garbage cannisterstWizzy thought, glowing red as he continued to use his data banks.

  Through the windshield and portholes of the Amanda Marie, Wizzy got glimpses of Javik and Evans clinging for their lives inside. Over and over the ship rolled, down the center of the path.

  “Only one thing to do,” Wizzy said to himself. He dived toward the people.

  As Wizzy neared the throng, he realized they were not humans, and they were not wearing costumes. They were Fruit people, men and women, dressed in shabby, ill-fitting three-piece suits and suit dresses of varying colors and patterns. Each sported a tarnished gold chain across his waistcoated belly, and carried a worn briefcase in the hand which was not being used to push the ship. They looked distinguished to Wizzy, in a peculiar sort of way. He veered off just before hitting them.

  The creatures swatted at Wizzy with their briefcases and ducked out of the way. Some yelled ferocious epithets in legalese. They continued pushing the ship.

  “This is our chance, lawyers!” Wizzy heard one yell in a high-pitched, squealy voice. “Lord Abercrombie will favor us after such a large offering!”

  From his ever-handy data banks, Wizzy pinpointed the language as one of seventeen Corker dialects, a variety which had been sprinkled generously with Aluminum Starfield Latin.

  Offering? Wizzy thought. What terrible rite is this? He tried to pick up energy waves from the lawyer creatures’ brains, but got nothing.

  Wizzy dived at the creatures again. Again, they swatted at him and yelled epithets. After seven passes like this, all without success, Wizzy felt extremely tired. In a last-ditch burst of energy, he placed himself on the opposite side of the Amanda Marie from the creatures. Using all his strength against that side of the ship, he attempted to stop the crowd from rolling the ship any further.

  For a fraction of a second, Wizzy thought he felt the ship hold. But then he realized he was slipping down along the riveted skin of the craft. It rolled over him, followed by hundreds of thunderous, trampling feet. Wizzy was kicked to one side of the path.

  By the time Wizzy had picked himself up from the dust, he was behind the mob of Fruits and quite out of breath. Above him on each side towered the red, yellow, and blue garbage cannisters. He tried to fly, but did not have sufficient energy. So he scooted as quickly as he could off the path and up a little knoll overlooking the action.

  Upon seeing where the ship was headed, Wizzy squealed, “Oh no!” Below him and perhaps a hundred meters ahead of the tumbling ship, Wizzy saw a huge, gaping hole in the ground.

  “Wait!” Wizzy screamed. Panic-stricken, he scooted and fell down the knoll. “I’ve got to stop them!” he exclaimed.

  The Amanda Marie hit a smooth downslope and picked up speed, leaving the Fruit lawyers running along behind. Some fell in their anxiety and were trampled by their cohorts.

  “No!” Wizzy yelled. “Stop!” He scurried as fast as he could, but this was not nearly fast enough. He knew it was too late. The ship was outrunning everyone.

  The Amanda Marie hit a bump at the edge of the precipice, then tumbled into the black, cavernous hole and disappeared. Wizzy felt an empty pang in the center of his nucleus.

  Ahead, Wizzy saw the lawyers reach the edge of the precipice. The thunder of their feet subsided. They encircled the hole, looking down into it. As Wizzy caught up, he heard them chatter excitedly.

  “Favor us, Lord Abercrombie!” they wailed. “Favor us, oh mighty Lord!”

  Wizzy darted between the Fruit-lawyers’ stubby legs and around their briefcases, soon reaching the edge of the hole! Looking down, he saw only blackness. It made him sad, extremely sad. This was a new emotion to Wizzy, and he did not understand it.

  I want to feel better, Wizzy thought. So he laughed boisterously for several seconds. This did not help.

  “End our suffering, Lord!” the Fruit lawyers moaned.

  Wizzy leaned over the edge to get a better view, clinging there with all his remaining strength. It worked the last time I laughed, he thought. Why don’t I feel better now?

  He felt himself shaking, and wondered if this was caused by yet another emotion. Then he realized it was the ground that was moving, not him. He jumped away from the hole.

  The Fruit lawyers cried out in terror, bemoaning the fact that Lord Abercrombie still was not pleased with them. Earthquakes were a bad sign. They ran for cover in the nearby piney woods, leaving Wizzy alone by the hole.

  Shortly before this, Lord Abercrombie lay far below, immersed in the soil. It was nearly time for him to leave the Realm of Magic once again, returning to his half existence in the Realm of Flesh. Fear tore through him. He wanted completeness, either in magic or flesh. But he could not decide between the realms.

  If he chose magic, the planet Cork would be his. Chief Magician of Cork, Abercrombie thought, letting the words roll across his pleasure sensors. Has a nice sound to it. And no fleshcarrier can invade my private place from the surface, not as long as I remain soil-immersed.

  Cork was a planet waiting to be taken. But it seemed too easy, and this troubled him. Why did the other magicians leave? he wondered. There seemed no answer to such a question. Perhaps he could learn the answer—if he committed himself this time, not returning to flesh.

  He wondered if he needed to commit himself entirely to the Realm of Magic before he would be able to use magic efficiently for the creation of disasters. In theory, that made a certain amount of sense. He was only pecking.away at magic now, on the outskirts of something big. But could he return to flesh if he made such a commitment?

  What if being the planet is all there is here? he thought. A philosophical niche in which I can contemplate my navel .. .vegetating.

  Abercrombie stirred angrily. God, but I hate vegetables! he thought. He recalled a recurring nightmare in which his Earthian mother forced him to eat brussels sprouts, those horrid little leafy balls. In the nightmare, his mother smiled in that falsely sweet way—the “It’s good for you, dear” smile that he detested.

  Cataloguing his enemies, past and present, Lord Abercrombie recalled when the villainous Uncle Rosy had sent six white-robed sayermen to take him back as a recycling criminal. But Abercrombie had stumbled across the Sacred Scroll of Cork, which led him to the Magician’s Chamber: his private place. He was relatively safe here.

  But I was powerless to prevent the scroll’s flight back to Sacred Pond, he thought. It is vulnerable there. And that makes me vulnerable—unless I choose to seal the surface entrance by remaining soil-immersed.

  He wondered if there might not be better planets. Why should he settle for a third-rate place?

  Lord Abercrombie became aware of hordes of little feet scurrying across his surface. They were pushing something along the ground to the sacrifice hole his meckies had dug —a long, cream-colored cannister with red, yellow, and blue markings—

  AmFed markings!’ he thought. His visual sensors probed the cannister as it tumbled across his planetary crust. An AmFed ship! But what are those stupid lawyers doing? This is not gar-bahge, you fools!

  Lord Abercrombie felt himself returning to the Realm of Flesh as he thought of the ship. Maybe he could commandeer it to escape in his fleshy form, finding a better fleshcarrier life somewhere else, a life without Earthians pursuing him. But where would he go? On the other hand, he might still function as a magician, despite his frustrations to date. He was learning more about magic each day. Only the day before, he had magically induced a small rockslide. That was progress, his first magically created disaster in four years of trying.

  But being a planet seemed so boring most of the time, just staring out on an unchanging universe, with occasional novas, comets, and shooting stars. He longed for action, for the excitement of change. This seemed possible only in the Realm of Flesh. And he longed for conversation with a real person. It had been four years.

  His reasoning went in circles, touching each side of the argument over and over, and always returning to the starting point. It
was frustrating.

  As the AmFed ship tumbled into Abercrombie’s maw, he wondered if he could put its computer hardware to use; maybe his meckies could adapt it to improve his outdated Earthian disaster control machinery. He needed to solve the reverse rain problem. At times, the patched-together disaster control equipment seemed to function well, producing nice phenomena, but then the rain would pour from the planet, and everything would short out.

  It’s got to be in my equipment, he thought. Some misfunction I haven’t discovered yet.

  Then Lord Abercrombie worried about the AmFeds sending warships to investigate the disappearance of an AmFed ship. He knew his magic was as undependable as his technology. He would be no match for sophisticated AmFed weaponry. They could destroy the entire planet.

  No, he decided. I can’t keep the ship.

  The Amanda Marie hurtled deeper into the sacrifice hole, bouncing off dirt and rocks on the sides. Something fell out of the ship, but Lord Abercrombie did not focus on what it was.

  Magnetics, he thought, recalling the symbols on the history wall. He pictured one of the symbols in his mind now: a circle intertwined with the symbol for magnetics. Circle, he thought. Circle. . . .

  Lord Abercrombie recalled that the symbols were beneath the pictures of his magician predecessors. Circle, he thought. Could that represent a planet? Maybe the whole symbol refers to planetary magnetics.

  He wanted to consider this further, but began to feel ill, sick to his pleasure sensors. His fleshy hand clutched fitfully out of the dirt, reaching for its survival. He swooned. Suddenly, a monstrous burp echoed through the passageways and caverns of the Magician’s Chamber. Lord Abercrombie jumped out of the hole, throwing dirt everywhere.

  In sunlight on the planet’s surface, Wizzy smelled a peculiar, sulfurous gas which nauseated him. He took refuge behind one of the upright garbage cannisters.

  Burr.. .rupp! An echoing regurgitation sound came from the hole, followed by the Amanda Marie. A deep voice thundered from the hole: “You stupid lawyers! Incompetent fools! Can’t you do anything right?”

  The ship was hurled high in the air over Wizzy, along with fragments of dirt and rock. Something white hurtled by too, causing Wizzy’s magical heart to sink. A body? he thought.

  Whatever it was sped away before he could identify it. The ship itself went so high that Wizzy almost lost sight of it. Then, from a distant, tiny speck, it began to grow larger. It was falling back to Cork.

  Most of the Fruit lawyers managed to dodge rocks and other debris that pelted the area, but Wizzy saw one hapless banana man squashed flat by a large stone. It was horrible. Other Fruits nursed wounds and looked for their missing property. Briefcases and business cards lay on the ground in disarray.

  “Lord Abercrombie refused our offering!” a bottom-heavy pear woman lamented. “Now the curse will be worse! He is furious with us!”

  None could dispute this statement. There was a general condition of extreme unhappiness.

  Soon Wizzy saw the Amanda Marie’s para-flaps go out. Someone’s inside, he thought, recalling that the automatic system had not functioned earlier. At least one.

  The ship drifted down gracefully, landing almost without flaw at one side of the clearing. It was badly dented, with portions of riveted skin hanging loose like bloodless wounds.

  “Oh my!” Wizzy exclaimed in a voice drowned out in the surrounding commotion. “I hope everyone’s all right!”

  The crowd ran toward the ship, yelling angry and confused epithets. Wizzy followed, scooting in short bursts and stopping frequently to catch his breath.

  A tall pineapple man with scaly brown skin ran past Wizzy at one of these rest stops. This fellow looked quite silly to Wizzy in comparison with the others. He wore bright purple and black checkered shorts that were torn on one side and a faded, royal purple tunic. An immense, leafy green headress grew from his head, on top of which he held on a misshapen helicopter beanie with one hand. “Be calm, my friends!” the pineapple man called out as he ran. “Calm yourselves!”

  Ahead, Wizzy could see the open hatch on the Amanda Marie. Pop your head out. Captain Torn, he thought, staring anxiously at the open hatch. But there was no sign of movement on the ship.

  CHAPTER 5

  The effects of ultra technology often seem identical to those of magic. This is the point at which the Realm of Flesh approaches a more perfect, magical state. Only a knowledgeable observer can spot the difference.

  A Timeless Truth

  “We’re down!” Evans said, clinging with both hands to the midships para-flaps wheel. She released her grip. Her palms were moist.

  “Ow,” Javik said. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder. He had been holding fast to his command chair. Now he rose to survey the cabin. It was in disarray, with clip files, medical packs, and other items of equipment scattered about. Sunlight slanted through the portholes on one side. Javik rubbed his sore shoulder.

  Evans rolled to the open circular hatch and looked out. “Lucky we didn’t fall out,” she said, watching the crowd of oddly dressed natives approach.

  Javik was at her side a moment later. “Still no response from the engines,” he said, holding his hand on his holstered service pistol.

  “God, it stinks in here!” Evans said. “Some kinda gas in that hole.”

  “Sounded like a big burp to me,” Javik said.

  As the crowd approached, Evans speculated that they looked like a bunch of costume-party goers. “Maybe they’re drunk,” she said.

  “They look like offbeat lawyers,” Javik said. “Look at the three-piece suits, briefcases, and gold watch chains.” He squinted. “Wait a minute,” he said.

  “Are those costumes?” Evans asked.

  “Exactly what I was wondering. I can’t tell.”

  The crowd became excited upon seeing Javik and Evans. They ran faster, pointing and waving white cards. As they neared, Javik realized they were business cards. And he realized something else.

  “They’re Fruit people!” Javik exclaimed.

  “Frumba hallinon?” an orange woman asked, looking up and extending a business card. She was the first to arrive. Javik noticed a small folding shovel on her hip, secured to her belt.

  Others arrived now, an endless variety of Fruit people, all dressed similarly and all waving business cards. “Frumba hallinon?” they asked. “Frumba hallinon?”

  “What the . . . ?”

  Javik fumbled with his language mixer pendant. It showed a red light. Then it beeped and the light became green.

  “Do you want legal advice?” the Fruit creatures asked. They still spoke in their native tongue, but now Javik understood.

  “Where are we?” Evans asked. “In Glitterland?”

  Soon the Fruits were clamoring to reach the visitors from Earth. Since the open hatch was high off the ground at midships, the Fruits had to pile on top of one another, just as they had done earlier to topple the ship. They fought to be first, pushing and kicking their brethren with complete abandon.

  One watermelon man reached the top, where he hung desperately to the hatchway deck. Stretching to reach up, he pressed a business card into Javik’s palm. Javik used his mixer to read it as the fellow was dragged down the heap to the ground. The pile fell now, and the Fruits scrambled to rebuild it.

  Wily Watermelon

  Attorney at Law,

  non compos mentis

  Javik flipped the card away, and watched the wind take it. Below, the Fruit people were clearing their ranks, allowing a tall pineapple man through. Obviously, he was someone in authority. Dressed differently from the others but carrying a similar folding shovel on his hip, the pineapple man’s most distinctive article of attire was a red helicopter beanie with a bright yellow plastic rotor that spun as he walked.

  A murmuring passed through the crowd. The Fruit lawyers who had been piling up retreated, nursing their wounds.

  When he reached the front of the multitude, the pineapple man extended his arms to eac
h side, gazing up at Javik and Evans. “You there!” he called out in a loud, syrupy voice. “Identify yourselves!” Drat! he thought. This had better not interrupt my plans for tonight!

  Javik gave names, then said, “We are in the American Federation of Freeness Space Patrol. From Earth.” He wrinkled his brow, recalling the dancing pineapple man he had seen when he was half asleep in the videodome—just before Wizzy’s entrance. Every event after the time Wizzy appeared seemed unreal to Javik. But then he recalled Wizzy slamming into his hand to prove he was awake. That hurt like hell, Javik thought.

  “I am Prince Peter Pineapple,” the pineapple man announced proudly. “Of the Royal Family of Cork.” He squinted in the light of three suns which were low in the sky to the west.

  “This place is called Cork?” Javik asked. He saw Wizzy scoot up at the prince’s feet, panting heavily. Wizzy was dark blue with a thin layer of dust on his body.

  “It is our planet’s name,” Prince Pineapple explained. “Sixth planet in the Triad Solar System.”

  “We call it the Aluminum Starfield,” Javik said.

  Prince Pineapple smoothed his elegant leaf headless with one hand. “We know of Earth, you know,” he said.

  “You do?” Javik said. “How?”

  “You sent us gar-bahge.”

  “I know,” Javik said nervously, taking note of the affected pronunciation. “I have been sent to discuss that with you.”

  “We know you by your gar-bahge, Earthian. And I can’t tell you how happy we are to see you.”

  “Uh . . . we will straighten everything out. I promise you that.”

  “Wonderful!” the pineapple prince said. “Come down now, Earthians. King Corker would hear of your gar-bahge!”

  “Why did your people push my ship in a hole?” Javik asked.