The Garbage Chronicles

by Brian Herbert

  Rebo focused on a tall metallic cylinder on the opposite side of the clearing below the last sighting point of the glider. At the coo-roo-coo of a bird, he turned his head. In the piney woods behind them, a big-beaked green bird was perched on a tree branch. The bird flapped its wings rhythmically.

  I am a murderer, Rebo thought. He became angry at the thought. I don’t need to think of such things! They are of no consequence to me! He recalled chiding Namaba often for letting her conscience get in her way.

  Namaba was saying something, but Rebo did not hear the words. When he became aware of her, she was pointing across the clearing at the big cylinder. “Let’s see what it is,” she said.

  Minutes later, in fast approaching darkness, they were ransacking the Amanda Marie, tossing gear and supplies all over the cabin and out the open hatch.

  “Odd food,” Rebo said, biting into a chocolate bar, wrapper and all. “I don’t like the covering.”

  “I don’t either,” Namaba said. She removed the wrapper from her candy bar and discarded it. “Better this way,” she said.

  As they reached a frenzy of consumption, fine, steamy mist poured from their noses and ears and their steam engine hearts purred at peak efficiency. Soon particles of food were escaping from the pores of their skin in the form of dark brown, powdery waste products. It was so dark now that they could barely see their way around the cabin, even with the aid of their glowing red eyes. They lay their bloated bodies down on the corrugated metal deck and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 7

  One of my great disappointments lay in the decadence of the Corker ruling class. Debauchery seemed imprinted in their Fruity souls.

  Comments made by Felix the Magician after abandoning Cork

  While waiting for the castle’s main gate to open, Javik looked beyond the old prunesayer to the Corkian sunset. The sky along the horizon was color-splashed, with a craggy ridge of clouds there resembling mountains. They glowed pastel pink, imitation mountains with dirty blue bases. Seconds later, like a chameleon, the range had become dirty white and silver. As voices called out from the guardwalk above, the sky and its clouds changed to dark gray.

  “Who goes there?” a guard asked.

  Prince Pineapple identified himself, then said to Javik with a smirk, “They can see me clearly, but always call out like that anyway. Consummate idiots!”

  The heavy wooden gate cranked up, creaking and straining as it went. When it was fully open, Javik saw the mechanism behind the gate: large stone gears and ropes pulled by zucchini men slaves turning a wheel on the walkway above.

  As the prince strode briskly into the castle, two Corker guards greeted him, saluting with a touch of their right thumbs to the center of their foreheads. Prince Pineapple duplicated the gesture.

  “This way,” Prince Pineapple said, looking down at his smaller Earthian companions. He hurried them across a gold-inlaid, white slate courtyard. The courtyard had a well in the configuration of a six-pointed star at the center, with a star-shaped frame of tomato and green bean vines surrounding it.

  A marble-floored corridor beyond that had, at every doorway, two Corker guards holding electric sticks. They stood nearly motionless, moving their moist purple mouths only a little to suck at grain alcohol tubes.

  Rounding a corner with the prince, Javik focused on elegant carved double doors directly ahead.

  “The king’s court,” Prince Pineapple said.

  The doors swung open as they neared, activated by rubber supermarket-door pressure pads at their feet. The court was full of Fruit people of every variety, chattering idly in a crescendo of idiocy. These people were dressed gaudily, with ornate pompadour leaf wigs in all the pastel colors. All sported white gloves, and many peered haughtily through monocles. To Javik, they looked like overdressed characters from an AmFed cartoon movie.

  When the prince and his guests entered the room, the court grew quiet, with the members moving to the walls and talking in hushed tones. This exposed a purple and gold strip of synthetic Persian carpet at the center of the room. Puffing his chest out theatrically, Prince Pineapple strutted down the center of the carpet toward an unoccupied, gilded throne which rested on a wide platform.

  A tinny bell rang from somewhere in the room.

  “King Corker has been notified,” Prince Pineapple said, stopping in front of the throne. He removed his helicopter beanie.

  Two scantily clad peach girls pranced out from side doorways at each side of the throne. They pranced on tiptoes to the front of the throne, then began an undulating belly dance. It was an exotic display of potbellies and synchronized, pulsating folds of fat.

  “Delectables from the king’s harem,” Prince Pineapple said.

  The peach girls circled one another, trailing sheer black veils from their fingertips. Then they spread their pudgy legs and stretched back, swaying their arms gracefully. One of the girls had difficulty with this maneuver. Struggling to bend her back and touch her forehead to the floor behind her, she lost her balance and tumbled over.

  Javik suppressed a smile as the peach girl staggered clumsily to her feet. The performance was bad, so bad in fact that he wanted to turn off the videodome switch. If only one had been handy!

  “Yay mish-mish!” a Corker guard yelled, raising his electric stick high in the air exuberantly.

  “Yay mish-mish!” all the men in the court yelled. Prince Pineapple joined in halfheartedly.

  “What does that mean?” Javik asked. He shook his language mixer pendant. It seemed to be operating, but was not translating these words.

  “Oh, what a peach!” Prince Pineapple said, surprised at the question. “I think it’s one of your Earthian languages.”

  “Mmmm!” another Corker guard yelled. “Juicy Fruities!”

  “Mmmm!” all the court’s men yelled. “Juicy Fruities!”

  Looking around, Javik noted-that all the men in the court except Prince Pineapple were watching the peach girls with lust-inflamed eyes. The prince seemed almost not to notice them, and to Javik he had the appearance of one deep in thought, shouldering some great burden.

  What foolishness, Prince Pineapple thought. What a complete and utter sham! He glared at the base of the throne.

  “All kneel!” a casaba melon doorwoman called out.

  The peach girls stopped dancing abruptly and fell to their knees at each side of the throne.

  Following the others in the court, Javik and Evans knelt. Javik watched out of the corner of his eye as the king entered through one of the side doors.

  Just then, Wizzy flew out of Javik’s pocket and alighted on Javik’s shoulder. “Took a little snooze,” Wizzy announced too loudly. The words echoed around the room. He yawned in a loud, mouthy moan, stretching his lumpy body.

  “Shhhh!” Javik whispered.

  King Corker was a very large grape man in a ruffled white blouse and tight red pants, with scaly, grenache purple skin and six stubby legs like the other Corkers. But King Corker was much larger than other Corkers, perhaps twice their size. He wore an oversized grain alcohol backpack, and with one pudgy hand pulled the pack’s plastic tube out of his mouth. Syrupy black liquid dripped from the tube down the front of his ruffled blouse. He appeared unconcerned about this.

  As the peach girls undulated their thick arms in welcoming gestures, King Corker padded across the platform on red slippers. When the king hopped on his throne, Javik was intrigued at how neatly his six legs stacked on top of one another as he sat. The king sucked on his alcohol tube and stared down dispassionately with his black button eyes at Javik.

  Prince Pineapple rose, pulling Javik and Evans up with him. “Visitors from Earth, Sire,” he said, staring at the floor.

  He doesn’t even meet the king’s gaze, Javik thought. This prince is not to be trusted.

  “From Earth? From Earth?” King Corker said. “There is mirth from Earth?”

  Prince Pineapple did a high backflip at the royal rhyme, clicking his heels as he went over. Everyo
ne in court followed suit, even ladies in petticoats, like a mass automatic reaction —with the exception of Javik, Evans, and the king.

  “Tell me a story,” King Corker said petulantly, looking at Javik with a pouting smile across his wide mouth.

  “You mean about why we’re here?” Javik asked.

  “Suffering souplines!” King Corker exclaimed angrily. He glowered at Prince Pineapple. “You didn’t inform them that I like stories?”

  “Uh, sorry, Your Majesty,” Prince Pineapple said, obviously flustered. “I . . . uh . . . was overly concerned about the gar-bahge.” Under King Corker’s increasingly ferocious glare, Prince Pineapple leaned close to Javik and said in a cracking voice, “Tell him your funniest story. King Corker loves to laugh.”

  “Oh!” Wizzy squealed, jumping high in the air over Javik’s shoulder and then landing back on the shoulder. “I like to laugh, too! Ha-ha-ha! A-ha-ha-ha-ha-hee!”

  Javik winced.

  “Shush, Wizzy!” Evans whispered. “Not now!”

  King Corker appeared on the verge of exploding into anger. He drummed a forefinger impatiently on the arm of his throne.

  “Does he mean a joke?” Javik asked, looking sidelong at Prince Pineapple.

  “Anything. But make it quick. It’s rude to keep funny things from our king.”

  “Well,” Javik said, scratching the back of his neck, “here’s one I heard a few weeks back. Once during the Atheist Wars, General Ishmael Roberts . . . he was the founder of our American Federation Space Patrol, Your Majesty.” Javik paused, expecting a nod from the king.

  King Corker scowled. He sucked at his alcohol pack.

  “Hurry!” Prince Pineapple whispered. “Get to the punch liner

  “I was just giving him a little background. Aw, Cha-rist!” Javik sighed, then resumed his story: “General Roberts was asked by a neighbor in his condominium building about the placement of key AmFed warships in deep space. It was a thoughtless question, touching upon highly classified information. Anyway, General Roberts leaned close to the questioner’s ear and asked, “Can you keep a secret?”

  Javik glanced around the court, assuring himself that all ears were tuned in, hanging on his every word.

  “Yes?” King Corker said, pursing his moist lips like a spoiled child about to receive another gift.

  “Hurry,” Prince Pineapple said nervously.

  “You can’t hurry a story,” Javik snapped. “Timing is the whole thing. Anyway, Your Majesty, this neighbor was very eager, and he said, ‘I sure can, General.’ So General Roberts smiled and said, ‘Well, so can I.’” Javik studied the king’s face.

  King Corker did not crack a smile. He sat motionless, appearing confused at the tale.

  The silence of death permeated the court.

  Javik shuffled his feet.

  “I warned you, get to the punch line,” Prince Pineapple said in a desperate tone. “Please!”

  “That was it,” Javik said. He shrugged, then glanced at Evans.

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes upward.

  Prince Pineapple covered his face with his hands. Cautiously, he peered through stubby fingers at the king.

  King Corker’s jaw had fallen in incredulity.

  “Try another one,” Evans urged. “One of those bawdy barroom stories.”

  “I thought the king might prefer something more highbrow,” Javik muttered.

  “That was an awful story,” King Corker said. He thought for a moment. “So awful that it was funny.” He laughed uproariously.

  A floodgate of laughter broke loose across the court. This became a tittering of glee that died down when the king stopped for a breath and then started to roll again when the king resumed laughing.

  Such fools, Prince Pineapple thought. This court is full of mindless puppets.

  “Ho!” King Corker said. “Very clever, Earthian. And now I will tell you a story.”

  The court fell silent. Everyone leaned forward so as not to miss a word of the king’s tale.

  “Shall I tell a riddle or a joke?” King Corker mused, gazing playfully at the ceiling.

  A watermelon man in a bright gold buttonless suit hurried to the king’s side. The watermelon man flipped a large gold coin in the air, caught it in one hand, and pressed it against the back of the other hand. “A riddle, Sire,” he reported. “Lord Abercrombie wants a riddle.”

  “Our planet God has spoken!” the court intoned. Javik saw Prince Pineapple’s lips move, but no sound came from them.

  I have a good pineapple brain, the prince thought. We have no need for Decision Coins. Look at our pitiful king, consulting with a melonhead.

  “Very well,” King Corker said, watching the watermelon man hustle to a position along the wall. “A riddle: Why can’t Vegetable Underground troops go on a break for longer than five minutes?” He chuckled.

  I have heard this story so many times, Prince Pineapple thought wearily. And we’re always expected to laugh.

  Javik looked around, then back to the king. King Corker looked like a fat, purple man about to burst with mirth.

  A wave of tittering rolled through the court.

  “Gosh,” Javik said with a silly grin. “I don’t know that one.

  “Any longer,” King Corker said “and they’d have to be completely retrained!” He spit the words out with an exploding laugh, then howled with glee to the point where tears ran down his scaly cheeks. The peach girls dabbed his face with tissues. This must have been very cheap tissue, for little pieces of it stuck to the king’s skin.

  As Javik looked on in amazement, the entire court fell into a pandemonium of laughter. Fruits held one another up and repeated the punch line endlessly. “Did you hear that?” they asked. “The V-U’s would have to be completely retrained!

  “Ah, ha-ha! Oh boy!” they said.

  “That was a good one!”

  “Those stupid Vegetables!”

  After the peach girls stepped away from King Corker, he looked at Javik and asked, “Did you like my story, Earthian?”

  Javik laughed halfheartedly and heard Evans do the same. “Very much, Your Majesty,” he said. “It was hilarious.”

  “We hate Vegetables here, Earthian,” the king said. “They are stupid, foolish creatures.”

  “Vegetables are dumb,” the court chanted.

  “And bitter, bitter, bitter,” the men of the court yelled with deep voices.

  “But Fruits are sweet,” the ladies responded.

  “Fruits are neat,” everyone said.

  The court grew silent. Then the peach girls fluttered out a side door, trailing their black veils,

  “We have a saying here,” King Corker said. Raising a forefinger in the manner of a Freedom Studies instructor, he added, “And it is very important.” His head bobbed from the profound truth of this as he said, “‘Once a Vegetable, always a Vegetable.’ There is no hope for them, Earthian, except as servants.”

  Javik nodded.

  King Corker sucked on his grain alcohol tube, dripping brackish ooze down his chin. A glazed, drunken look came over him. “I watched your ship come down,” he said. He raised a hand, then dropped it.

  Two watermelon men moved quickly from their wall positions to the sides of the king’s throne. Upon reaching the throne, one of them flipped a Decision Coin, then whispered in the king’s ear. Then the other watermelon man flipped a different coin, and he too leaned over to pass along a bit of wisdom to the king.

  King Corker nodded, then waved both of them away.

  “Our planet God has spoken!” the court intoned.

  “Curious-looking creatures, these Earthians,” King Corker said, looking from Javik and Evans to the prince. “Suppose I shouldn’t say that. They do resemble the way Lord Abercrombie looked before his transformation.”

  “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—