Space Junk

by Andrew Bixler

  Copyright © 2019 Andrew Bixler. All rights reserved.

  Published by Pants Team Press.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without receiving written permission from the author, with the exception of brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.

  For more information about this book and to receive updates on new releases, visit andrewbixler.com

  Cover illustration by Chun Lo

  Interior illustrations by Gary Bixler

  ISBN: 978-0-578-60971-3

  For my parents, without whose unwavering support and patience this book wouldn’t exist.

  Special thanks to my tireless editor, Meghan Lear, for her assistance in tidying up these words and to Gary Bixler for providing the interior illustrations.

  PART I - A Big Ol' Mess

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  PART II - Intergalactic Homesick Blues

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  PART III - You Can't Take It with You

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  PART IV - Loose Ends

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Author's Note

  About the Author

  Thanks for Reading

  Searching streamers of light rip through the darkness, and the sky erupts as the front line of the mighty Traxan fleet is showered with white fire. The return volley is even more devastating, reducing hundreds of Zorman warships to space dust. The debris scatters in all directions, a few fragments even pelting the armored hull of a small cargo ship anchored on the outskirts of the war, from inside which Spez Hockik and Tobi O’Hare watch the systematic destruction of two ancient empires.

  Spez crushes an empty can of Ol’ Guard, shoves it into a hatch on the ceiling, and presses open the airlock to send it drifting into space.

  “Yuh ever seen a thing like that?” Tobi asks from the passenger seat, his eyestalks stretched toward the commotion outside.

  “Oh sure, ther’s been wars that stretch’t on fer hunerts a years, ‘cross multiple galaxies,” Spez sneers. “Chit, Ponce Ra-leigh hisself fought in bigger wars ‘an this.”

  “Yeah, but that must a been…” Tobi squints, calculating with his spindly fingers, “somethin’ like five hunert years ago. Been a long time since ther was a war this big.” His eyes grow wide, and he presses them against the window.

  “Well…” Spez adjusts his hat, a grease-stained mesh baseball cap with the word ‘SPEZ’ crudely stitched over the brim. “Yuh may be right. I guess this is the biggest war I ever seen with my own eyes.”

  Silence washes over the two travelers in an unusual display of reverence for change and time as a barrage of fire streaks the sky.

  Spez jerks in surprise when a loud DING rings out from the back of the ship. He jumps out of his seat and retrieves a bursting brown paper bag from the microwave. Steam pours out as he rips the bag open and dumps the contents into a large bowl.

  “Now it’s a show,” Tobi exclaims, scooping out a handful of popcorn.

  Spez cracks open another can of Ol’ Guard, swigs it and produces a wet belch, “BUUAAA.”

  “I wonter what ther fightin’ over, yuh know?” Tobi remarks.

  “Phh, who knows?” Spez says. “One’s probly mad at the other fer somethin’ that happen’t afer any a them was born. All the empires is the same. They got errythin’ and it’s not enough. Win they run out a things tuh fight ‘bout, they fine’t somethin’ else.” He glances at Tobi, scowls, and snatches the bowl. “Hey, quit hoggin’ all the corn!”

  “Yeah, but it’s gotta be ‘bout somethin’,” Tobi says.

  “Trust me, it ain’t ‘bout nothin’,” Spez assures him.

  “Yuh know,” Tobi says, “it’s been a long time since I hat popcorn.” His eyes glaze over. “I was jist a little kit visitin’ with my olt grantma and pa. Grantma tolt me a crazy story once, ‘bout a travelin’ carnival that lant’it outsite town, in a ship shape’t like a giant circus tent, with big blood-drinking clowns and man-eating popcorn – guess they brought the stuff from the other site a the universe…”

  “Come on, Tob,” Spez pleads, recognizing the words as the opening to another long-winded trip down memory lane. “Give it a rest, will yuh?”

  “Wher’it yuh git it, anyway?” Tobi asks, reaching for the bowl.

  “Fert got a shipment last week,” Spez says. “Cost me a whole day’s work. But it was worth it.” Fragments of yellow kernels stick in his beard as he chomps through another handful.

  He suddenly drops the bowl, spilling its contents across the grated floor, as an enormous wave of light reaches toward their ship.

  “Whoa!” Tobi shouts, hanging onto the rafters.

  “Woo-hoo!” Spez gleefully howls.

  The cargo ship rattles and quakes, and lights lining the dashboard blink out and back on.

  “I THINK WER TOO CLOSE,” Tobi yells over the rattling.

  “NAW,” Spez grins. “THIS IS WER ALL THE ACTION IS.”

  Soon the ship settles, and Spez and Tobi slump back down into their seats.

  “Aww man, yuh drop’t the popcorn,” Tobi complains.

  “Not a problem.” Spez flicks a switch over his head, and the kernels begin to float up off the floor. “This is how I use tuh eat it win I was a kit.”

  “Yeah, that’s perty fun, I guess.” Tobi plucks one of the kernels out of the air and pops it into his mouth. “Even if it was on the floor.”

  A light blinks on the dash, and Spez glances into his rearview at the drab gray hull of a Traxan warship.

  “Oh, now what the chit is this?” He flicks a switch on the console to open the public communication channel, and an image of a thin, uniformed humanoid with translucent skin materializes on the window.

  “BAAAMP,” a loud honk blares from the speakers. “You are imeding the progress of an imperial vessel. I demand that you move your… tub immediately,” the officer orders in a dry monotone.

  “Listen man, I don’t know what yer problem is, but y’all kin go ‘rount,” Spez tells him. “We was here first.”

  “I wil
l remind you that you are speaking to an officer of the Traxan army. What are you hauling, anyway?”

  “Heavy metal,” Spez says. “What the fish is it tuh you?”

  “We are on course to join the biggest war in the last century,” the officer says. “Much more is at stake than you could ever wrap your backspace minds around. We will not compromise our route for a couple of gawking yokels. You will move, or we will force you to move.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” Spez says.

  “Maybe we shit move,” Tobi whispers. “He sounts serious.”

  Spez waves a hand through the air. “Ther way too close tuh shoot. We‘it take out half ther ship with us. They’ll go ‘rount.”

  As if on cue, the Traxan ship turns and glides past. It looses a thundering bellow over the public channel, and as the barge passes them, a worker repairing something on the outer hull sticks his thumb out in an obscene gesture.

  “All these guys is the same,” Spez says. “One thing goes off-plan and they lose ther cool. Yup, I tell yuh, if one a them armies hat ol’ Spez leatin’ ‘em, the other site’it never stant a chance. I’it outsmart ‘em.” He taps a finger against his rubbery scalp.

  “Yeah?” Tobi asks. “How wit yuh do that?”

  “Well…” Spez rubs a hand through his beard, causing little bits of popcorn to escape into the air. “Never mine’t how, I’it jist do it, that’s all!”

  Outside, ships begin exploding in quick succession as the conflict reaches a head – the grand finale in an epic intergalactic fireworks display.

  Spez leans back and grabs his beer to settle in for the fight’s conclusion when the dash light starts blinking. “Chit, man.” He throws his hands in the air. Kin a guy git a break? It’s my boss. Jist lit me do the talkin’.” He flicks a switch on the console, and a scowling, bulbous man with graying hair appears on the window. “Hey ther Mr. Steel, how’s it goin’ sir?”

  “It’s going lousy, Spez,” Mr. Steel says, chomping down on the end of a long cigar. “Would you happen to have any idea why that might be?” He exhales a billow of dark smoke that momentarily fills the screen.

  “Cholesterol’s up?” Spez grins.

  “No, Spez,” Mr Steel says. “It’s because for some reason you refuse to deliver a shipment on time, ever!”

  “It’s not are fault.” Spez nervously straightens and glances at Tobi.

  Mr. Steel jabs a meaty finger toward the passenger seat. “Who the fish is that, anyway?”

  “Oh, that’s jist Tobi,” Spez says. “I brought him ‘long tuh help me unloat.” He winces. “My back’s been actin’ up.”

  “I don’t care what’s acting up, Spez,” Mr. Steel says. “If that shipment is late, you can be late for the rest of your life.”

  “Hey, I din’t know ther’it be a war goin’ on!”

  Mr. Steel inhales deeply, blows a thick cloud of smoke into the screen, and cuts off the feed.

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” Spez tells a pale green Tobi. “I guess we bitter git goin’. We seen the best part anyways.”

  Outside, the dueling lights have dwindled to just a few hundred fighters battling to the bitter end.

  Swatting popcorn away from his face, Spez starts his ship’s engine and, looking to his campanion, remarks, “Mmm, that purr…”

  Light flickers inside a patchwork heap of grimy metal that bears a vague resemblance to a spacecraft – a gray smudge marring an otherwise unoccupied, out-of-the-way plot of space, where the Ears and debt collectors are unlikely to pass through. The innocuous barge drifts aimlessly, the all-encompassing vacuum muffling the terrified screams and violin scare-chords within.

  A phosphorescent glow pulses through the cabin and voices shriek as a trembling man desperately pleads for his sanity over a violent storm. In spite of the cacophony, one sound manages to distinguish itself – the irregular, guttural snores emanating from a faded brown couch set against the back wall of the small metal room.

  Sprawled out in his boxer shorts in front of a coffee table covered in cigarette butts and beer cans, a gangly malnourished human with wild natty hair peacefully slumbers, awash in the comforting glow of the old television set he found on his first big scrap. It’s been on for weeks, ever since he decided simulated human interaction was better than none at all.

  As Adam snoozes, a loud bzzz adds itself to the horrific symphony.

  “There’s a man on the wing of this plane!” the TV wails.

  Adam shifts and leans on the remote, causing the TV to shut off. “What?” He wakes enough to question the sudden alteration in his surroundings and sticks his hand out in the dark to brace himself. But it doesn’t find a hold, and he tumbles off the couch, knocking over the table and causing a sudden crash of cans and other invisible trash.

  “Bzz, bzz, bzz,” echoes through the ship.

  “Fish and chit!” Adam yells as he struggles to lift himself off the floor. He stumbles across the room, feeling along the wall until he finds the light switch.

  “Bzzz, bzzz, bzzzzz…”

  “Chit man,” Adam grumbles to himself. “What the fish is it?” he yells.

  He stomps to the door and yanks open the porthole cover. Two grinning men, one short, one tall, with neatly combed hair and matching spacesuits, stare in at him.

  Adam hesitantly smiles back and switches on the intercom. “Yeah, what can I do for you fellas?”

  “Hello, are you Mr. Adam Jones, owner of the vehicle registered to license plate…” the short one glances down at a clipboard in his hand, “A-J-9-0-0-0?”

  “That might be me,” Adam says. “Who’s asking?”

  “Mr. Jones, we’re from the Interstellar Collections Agency…” the tall one says.

  “Chit man,” Adam moans. “How the fish did they find me out here?”

  “We’re here to speak with you about an outstanding debt on your vehicle,” the tall one says. “If you would permit us to board, we can discuss the matter further.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Adam mumbles. “Just give me a second.”

  He slams the porthole cover shut and makes a quick search of the room. When he spots his hefty keyring on the ground near the table, he snatches it and slumps into the driver’s seat. He rubs his eye as he shoves one of the keys into a slot on the dashboard and starts the engine. As the heap hums to life, the buzzing frantically resumes – bzzzz, bzzzz, bzzzz.

  “Sorry guys…” Adam presses the accelerator and, as his ship lurches forward, he glances in his rearview at the two agents tumbling backward against their beige van, staring after him in disbelief.

  Once he’s confident he’s lost the two chitheads, he parks and walks back to the living room, where he pulls on a dingy t-shirt and grabs the remote. The TV blares back to life, and he slumps onto the couch, sinking deep into its cushions.

  Reaching across the table, he grabs a crumpled pouch and a slip of paper and rolls a crude cigarette, flecks of cronian tobacco spilling out onto his chest. He bites down on the end of the crooked cylinder, lights it, inhales, and dazedly stares at the screen.

  As he’s nodding off, he notices a red light blinking in the cockpit. He tries to ignore it, but it keeps drawing his attention, just visible out of the corner of his eye.

  “Phhh…” he exhales, lifting himself off the couch and dragging his feet to the console. He taps the window and a grinning homo sapien with inscrutably average features and a slick salesman haircut appears.

  “You ignoring my calls?” Ferd asks. “I know you’re home. You always are.”

  “Nah,” Adam says. “Just digging my potato. A couple ICA goons managed to track me down out in some empty numbered sector.”

  “Those fishers, you can’t shake ‘em,” Ferd says. “But I’m calling with good news. If you’re sitting on any palladium or sitcoms, the market is hot right now. I don’t know how long it’s going to last.”

  “Hmm, I’m sure I’ve got something,” Adam says.

  “If you’re coming,” Ferd says, “I suggest yo
u get out here before the rush.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Adam ends the call and rubs his hands together. “Looks like it’s my lucky day.”

  Carefully stepping over piles of clothes and empty ration trays, he skitters back to his ship’s tiny bathroom and switches on the lights. The fluorescent glow accentuates the dark bags under his eyes, and his face appears even paler than the last time he looked.

  “Not bad,” he tells his reflection.

  When he’s finished using the space toilet, he scoops the empty beer cans and other trash littering the floor into a black plastic bag, loads it into the airlock, and watches it drift away from his ship.

  Slumping into the captain’s seat, he reaches into a small fridge under the dash and grabs a frosty can of Ol’ Guard. He cracks the tab, takes a swig, and selects Ferd’s from a list of pre-set destinations on the window.

  “Standby for action!” he announces to no one as he sets sail for the biggest pawn shop in the galaxy.

  Vice Admiral Zok wrings his hands behind his back, mentally rehearsing the best ways of delivering disappointing news as he passes through the long corridor leading to the admiral’s office. The clomping of his leather boots on the tile floor echoes through the bright, antiseptic tunnel, intruding on the pervasive quiet of the administrative wing of the station.

  When he arrives at the admiral’s door, he hesitates.

  “Is someone out there?” a deep voice growls from within.

  “It’s…” the vice admiral clears his throat, “Zok, sir.”

  “Well, why are you standing out there? Come in already,” the admiral commands.

  Zok fumbles open the door and clacks across the room. Admiral Glipp, a big man with skin the color and strength of granite and a literal square jaw scribbles something onto a tablet as Zok awkwardly stands at attention.

  “What is it, Zok?” the admiral asks, without lifting his mountainous head.

  “Admiral Glipp, I am…” Zok searches for the most delicate words.

  “Out with it, Zok,” the admiral grumbles.

  “The Traxans and Zormans have been wiped out,” Zok blurts. “There was an altercation. It was out of our hands, and now so is the element.”