The Garbage Chronicles

by Brian Herbert

  “How bad?”

  “I just checked all systems. The ailerons are heavily damaged, with two flaps totally useless. Most of the rocket tubes are plugged. Hell, this thing went through a bad dust storm, then was rolled on the ground and tossed in a hole.”

  “Couldn’t we make the parts with the metalworking equipment onboard? We could shape wall and floor pieces into ailerons.”

  “I’m surprised you understand that,” Javik said. “We’d need too much time. Corkers will be here soon, looking to take me back.”

  “Why don’t we go with Prince Pineapple?” Wizzy asked. He told of the prince’s quest for the Magician’s Chamber occupied by Abercrombie. Javik listened intently, and Wizzy thought he saw his expression brighten for a time. “It’s supposed to be a rough journey,” Wizzy said. “Rougher than a cob, from the looks of the scroll map.”

  Javik turned and went in the cabin. Wizzy followed, and watched Javik’s angular form slump into the captain’s chair. Through the windshield beyond Javik, Wizzy saw the tangerine orange ball of a Corkian sun just above the treetops.

  Wizzy flew to the dashboard and set down there. “Why don’t we go with the prince?” he asked.

  “And what will you do if I don’t?” Javik asked, smiling thinly.

  “I’ll stay with you, of course.”

  “Because Papa said? Is that why?”

  Wizzy’s yellow cat’s eye looked perplexed and angry at the same instant.

  “I saw the comet,” Javik said. “It passed overhead just before you arrived.” The cabin grew quiet for nearly a minute. Then Javik kicked the base of the instrument panel. “Damn this ship!” he said.

  “Remember your mission,” Wizzy said. “Find anything unusual and report back. Wouldn’t that be something if you could learn more about the arch-criminal, Abercrombie?”

  “I know enough about this friggin’ planet! All I want now is a couple of pleasure dome maidens, a table full of food, and at least three days of uninterrupted sleep.”

  “But Abercrombie is nuts. Prince Pineapple says so, anyway. Abercrombie must hate Earth because of what Uncle Rosy did to him. What if he tries to break this planet out of orbit?”

  “And send it toward Earth?”

  “Right.”

  “Too farfetched. It’ll never happen.” Javik kicked the instrument panel base again.

  “Maybe not. But you can’t stay here.”

  “You’re right about that, Wizzy. And I’m not going back to those games.”

  “Then you’ll go with Prince Pineapple?”

  “These are not problems,’” Javik muttered, recalling a schoolboy mantra. “‘They are opportunities.’”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Yeah. I’ll go.” With a rush of energy, Javik lunged to his feet. Locating the survival pack he had filled, he glanced around the cabin for anything he might have missed.

  “Do you have a tent in there?” Wizzy asked, recalling the dangers of water for him.

  “You think I’m stupid or somethin’?” Javik barked. He unsnapped a gortex bag from the wall and stuffed the bag in his pack. “Stay outta my way as much as possible. You got that, Wizzy?”

  Wizzy burned orange with anger, becoming so hot that Javik saw smoke under him on the plastic dashboard. Wizzy smelled the burning plastic and cooled down. Had Wizzy been human, he might have bitten his lip at that moment. For he did not say anything in response.

  When Javik and Wizzy reached the hatchway, they saw Prince Pineapple standing below, looking up at them. “I had a thought,” the prince said excitedly. “Maybe we could all go together—on your ship.”

  “Everyone wants my ship,” Javik said. “But it’s a no-go. If I could get it running, I’d blast outta here so fast it would . . . ” He sighed, adding: “I’ll go with you, Prince. On foot.”

  “Wonderful!” Prince Pineapple exclaimed.

  Javik wrapped the black and white Tasnard rope around his chest and under his armpits, then mentoed it.

  “You won’t regret this,” Prince Pineapple said.

  The Tasnard rope carried Javik gently to ground level. Wizzy flew down in a streak of yellow light.

  “I already do,” Javik said, looking at Wizzy. Javik mentoed the Tasnard rope. It curled neatly into his open palms. He put the rope in his survival pack.

  Wizzy flew in a short, angry circle.

  “Let’s see your scroll,” Javik said, looking at Prince Pineapple.

  The tall pineapple man unbuttoned his coat and handed the parchment to Javik.

  “You can’t see this?” Javik asked, accepting the scroll. “Not at all?”

  “No.” Prince Pineapple’s tone was tense. He did not like having to depend upon anyone. “Lord Abercrombie placed a spell on me,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, I can sure see it,” Javik said. “It shows a steep path, gaining thirty-three hundred meters in elevation over a distance of nine kilometers. Water at two points, one near the top. Then a high desert, fifty-two kilometers across. Icy Valley on the other side.”

  “Icy Valley,” Prince Pineapple said. “I have heard of it. Magicians created it, according to legend.” He looked past Javik, not meeting his gaze.

  After looking over the prince’s rather thin and worn coat, Javik removed his wardrobe ring and handed it to him, saying, “Put this on.”

  Prince Pineapple tried the ring on each of his stubby fingers, finally settling on the pinky of his left hand. That was the smallest of the lot.

  “Now remove your coat,” Javik said.

  “What on Cork for?”

  “Just do it,” Javik said, looking nervously across the clearing. All three Corker suns were above the treetops now, filling the clearing with light.

  Prince Pineapple dropped his coat to the ground, placing the scroll on top of it.

  Javik held the prince’s hand and stared at the rectangular turquoise stone on the wardrobe ring. He mentoed it. The stone glowed bright turquoise blue. Then an orange thread darted out of the ring, pausing in midair for a moment like a snake about to strike.

  Prince Pineapple jerked his hand.

  “Just stay still,” Javik said. He gripped the prince’s hand tightly. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

  The orange thread sped up, down, and around Prince Pineapple’s left arm, then did the same on the other arm, went around the neck and around the torso. A closed plastic zipper appeared down the front. Within seconds, Prince Pineapple was wearing an orange vari-temp coat. Through a similar procedure, he received a pair of matching pants, which stitched their way over his purple and black checkered shorts.

  “That outfit will work better in all temperatures than what you had,” Javik said. He retrieved the wardrobe ring and used it to obtain his own similar outfit.

  “Magic?” Prince Pineapple asked, touching the sleeve of his new coat in awe.

  “Naw,” Javik said, lifting his survival pack from the ground. “Just Bu-Tech.”

  Prince Pineapple removed his red helicopter beanie with its bright yellow plastic rotor. He held it against the coat. “Are you sure this doesn’t clash?” he asked.

  “Oh no,” Javik said, recalling the bright purple outfit the coat and pants covered. “You look great, Prince.”

  Prince Pineapple pursed his lips in a serious manner and looked at Javik. Then the prince donned his beanie and turned toward the trailhead. Soon he was leading the way up a rugged path that skirted a rockslide.

  “Watch your step,” Prince Pineapple said. “I have been to the top once, and there are perilous places—narrow stretches of mountain goat trail with steep dropoffs.”

  Wizzy flew at the rear, flaring a bright green tail which intermittently changed color as he gained control over it. A thick mist rolled down from the gnarled, gnome’s-cap rocks above. Soon they entered the mist. The trail became steeper, putting a noticeable strain on Javik’s Achilles tendons. He stopped to stretch the tendons, jogger-style, then caught up with the others.

&n
bsp; * * *

  Lord Abercrombie rolled over on his narrow four-poster bed, pulling the imitation down blankets over his face. Reflected morning sunlight had traveled to his bedroom via an elaborate network of mirrors, throwing the room into cheerful white light.

  He was on his flat side now, with his invisible magical side penetrating the mattress and bedsprings. At the whir of an approaching meckie, Lord Abercrombie looked through the mattress and bed frame with his magical visual sensors.

  It was the yellow meckie, the one Abercrombie had ordered programmed with scientific data. It was dented, stocky, and rivet-covered, with a yellow light pulsating on top. It had no face, and one arm dangled at its side in disrepair. “Are you awake, Lord?” the meckie asked. His voice was deep and metallic.

  “I am now,” Lord Abercrombie said grumpily.

  “I was told to report to you first thing in the morning, sir.”

  “That didn’t mean in my bedroom,” He peeked out from under the covers with his human eye. “I meant in the main chamber.”

  “Oh. Excuse me, Lord.” The meckie turned to leave.

  “As long as you’re here, tell me about planetary magnetics. Can that be spoiling my magic, and my other disaster control efforts?”

  “Definitely, sir. The linguistics meckie was in Servicing when I received my program, and she filled me in on your concerns.”

  “Oh? Well, I suppose that’s all right.”

  “I went to the surface last night and did a little homework on planetary magnetics. While you slept.”

  Lord Abercrombie sat up and put his pillow between the small of his back and the headboard. Reflected sunlight slanted across his covers from a ceiling mirror. He didn’t say anything.

  “I spoke with a magical tree up there, Lord. It’s an old oak, about five hundred meters east of the entrance slab.”

  “I know the tree. It’s one of the history-keeping places of the Council of Magic. But it would not tell me anything —other than its age and galactic serial number.”

  “Maybe it let its guard down a little for me,” the meckie said. “It was a beautiful evening last night, with harvest moons making their passage every hour. I spoke with the tree about the weather. You know, sir—small talk.”

  “You’re here to describe chitchat with a tree?”

  “There’s more than that. He’s not a bad sort, actually. Just following orders. He’s tens of thousands of years old, you know.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Anyway, he said the weather used to be more stable—less stormy. Then the magicians came around and started stirring things up.”

  “The others tried disaster control too?”

  “Apparently. I didn’t ask for details. Anyway, the tree mentioned something about Cork being out of whack magnetically. Everything is okay until somebody tries to fool with Mother Nature. Then the monopoles go crazy.”

  “Monopoles?”

  “Subatomic particles, Lord. Responsible for magnetism.”

  Lord Abercrombie’s human eye became bird alert. “The reverse rain—it’s caused by a magnetic imbalance in the planet?”

  “Uh huh. The planet and its atmosphere function as a single unit.”

  “Did the tree say anything else?”

  “No. I tried a number of direct questions after that, but it closed up the trunk hole it had been using as a mouth and wouldn’t say another word.”

  “Good work. Now what? How can I be more effective?”

  “Well, Lord . . . Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  The meckie hopped on a side chair, retracting its wheels to form a flat surface under its body. Its defective arm hung loosely at its side. “I’ve been thinking about this planet, Lord. I think the magnetics are shifting all the time. Pulling one way, then another. Those little monopoles travel in packs, kinda like schools of fish.”

  “You mean through the dirt?”

  “Mostly through iron and other elements in rock.”

  “Oh.”

  “You moved a couple of rocks with magic, didn’t you, Lord?”

  “You have done your homework.”

  “My theory is that you moved them when the monopoles were somewhere else, or at least when they weren’t present at full strength.”

  “So I should strike when the little buggers aren’t around.”

  “Precisely.” The meckie’s dome light pulsed erratically, then resumed its regular pattern.

  “And how do we determine where the little bastards are?”

  “No way of telling that. They’re not detectable by any equipment I know of.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Invisible.”

  “That’s just great. So we keep trying, eh? And if we’re lucky . . . ” Lord Abercrombie paused reflectively.

  “That’s about it, Lord.”

  “Thank you. You may leave now. And get your arm fixed.”

  After the meckie left, Lord Abercrombie lay back in bed and pulled the covers over his half head. Maybe I can find some of those monopoles when I’m soil-immersed, he thought. I’ll wipe ‘em out.

  Rebo and Namaba shivered as they crept out of their hiding place in the woods. They moved a few steps into the clearing toward the Amanda Marie, then stopped and looked around, their red eyes darting nervously. Over the craggy hills to their left, a thick, dirty white mist rolled toward them.

  “The creature with the thunder piece went that way,” Namaba said, pointing.

  Rebo did not say anything.

  They took a few more steps, then stopped again to check for danger. All seemed clear, and Rebo nodded to her that it was safe. He bolted for the ship, with Namaba in close pursuit.

  Reaching the ship, they found that the rope no longer dangled over the side. So Namaba positioned herself near the base, leaning forward and exposing her backside to Rebo in leapfrog fashion. It was a maneuver they had practiced often in Moro City.

  Rebo took a long, loping run for her back, then used her as a springboard to leap to the deck level of the ship. Finding another rope in the cabin, he secured it and dropped it down for her

  The cabin was in disarray, with scraps of cello-wrap and equipment strewn everywhere. Sunlight slanted in through the open hatch, sending the cabin’s night shadows retreating for their secret day places.

  Namaba began searching for food.

  Rebo climbed down into the sleeping compartment hatch and found the knife he had left there. His feet were cold on the metal floor. He stood looking at the shiny knife blade for a while, recalling the previous evening’s confrontation with the two-legged creature.

  I ran away, he thought. In Mow City, I would have fought to the death. But he did have a powerful weapon. . . .

  While Namaba moved around noisily on the upper deck, Rebo continued his thoughts. I didn’t want to kill! he thought. It wasn’t fear that stopped me. But Rebo was not certain of this, unaccustomed as he was to reasoning things out.

  He slipped the knife into its sheath on his coat, then noticed a ruby-red, octagonal pendant on the floor. Picking it up, he saw that it was multicolored, with geometric-shaped faces on it. The mechanism beeped and flashed a green light. Rebo kept the device and took it with him to the main deck level. It was bright in the cabin now, forcing him to squint.

  “No food,” Namaba said, approaching him. “It’s all gone.” She stood with her back to the sunlight, casting a hulking shadow at Rebo’s feet.

  “I found a nice necklace for you,” Rebo said, placing the pendant and chain around her neck. It beeped.

  “Pretty,” she said, watching the device’s light flash from green to red, then back to green.

  Rebo rummaged in a pile near one corner, locating a handful of dried pear pieces. They searched together for a while, not finding anything more. “You take this,” he said, extending his paltry bit of food to her.

  She looked surprised at this, but accepted his offer.

  “What’s wrong?”
Rebo asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, chewing the dried pears in one mouthful. “Only . . . ”

  “Only what?”

  “You’ve never been this thoughtful,” she said. She swallowed.

  “Whattaya mean? I pulled you outta that laboratory fire and took you under my wing in the Southside Hawks. Wasn’t that thoughtful?”

  “You needed a woman,” she said. “It was a prestige thing.”

  “Aw, get off that, will ya?”

  “Just forget I tried to compliment you,” she snapped.

  “Listen,” Rebo whispered. “Did you hear that?”

  Looking across the clearing, they saw hundreds of Fruit people approaching. All were wearing three-piece suits and suit dresses. All carried briefcases.

  Rebo was first to the rope, but he stepped aside and helped Namaba down.

  “Hurry,” she said, waiting for him at the bottom.

  Two Fruit men were only a few meters away now, running at breakneck speed. As Rebo and Namaba fled, one of the Fruits, a kiwi man with fuzz all over his round little body, yelled, “Wait! We want to speak with you about your legal needs!”

  Rebo and Namaba hurried toward the hill trail they had seen the creature with the thunder piece take. But the kiwi man was very fast and caught up, running alongside Rebo. The big Moravian gave the fuzzy fellow a stiff cuff, sending him rolling away. Business cards flew out of the kiwi man’s pockets.

  Now the other fast Fruit caught the Moravians. This fellow was a very speedy and especially seedy variety of lemon. He too ran alongside Rebo. “We are lawyers!” the lemon man yelled. “Here to represent the Earthian slave, Javik! The police are not far behind!”

  The pendant hanging from Namaba’s neck beeped.

  Rebo heard the distant, mournful wail of sirens. Looking back, he saw four police chariots with bright silver badges on the sides being pulled across the clearing by teams of carrot men.

  “Police?” Rebo said, alarmed. He slapped a business card out of his face.

  The lemon lawyer clutched at Rebo’s fur. “Maybe you need a lawyer too,” he said. “I could use the work.”

  Rebo gave the sticky yellow fellow a massive cuff, sending him spinning and reeling away. Then the Moravians picked up their loping pace. Four other lawyers caught them anyway and clutched at them, pulling their fur so hard that it hurt. One tore the pendant off Namaba’s neck. The pendant beeped, then was trampled underfoot.