The COMPLETE Reluctant Adventures of Fletcher Connolly on the Interstellar Railroad: A Comedic Sci-Fi Adventure

by Felix R. Savage

  Get on the Ghost Train? You’d have to be mad. There is no shortage of madmen of course, and various loons have boarded the Ghost Train in the past, never to be heard from again. But Zuckerberg’s guests won’t be joining them. They’ll be observing the thing from a safe distance and taking selfies.

  I’m not really interested in the Ghost Train. The galaxy is full of weird and wonderful A-tech and at some point you have to make the decision that you’re not going to bother about all of it.

  The piece of A-tech I’m interested in is much closer at hand.

  Three floors down, in fact.

  As everyone heads for the elevators and the flitter pads, I make for the bogs. I shut myself inside a stall with the treecats. Whenever someone rattles the door, I utter puking noises.

  Soon all’s quiet beyond. I let the treecats off their leashes.

  As I peek out of the bathroom, they squirt between my feet and bound down the corridor. They’ve got an amazing gift of camouflage. Their fur turns colors like chameleons. They’ve vanished in the blink of a drunken eye.

  I duck back into the bathroom, shuddering and whispering Hail Marys. This is it now, we’re committed. No turning back.

  Trembling with haste, I strip off my Denebite costume and ball it up, tying the floppy silicon arms around the bundle. Underneath it I’m wearing black jeans and a black polo shirt. I look like one of the waiters. But that’s nothing. I’ve spent the last year in work gloves and a breathing mask, swinging a pick in an alien catacomb. If you think your job is shite, I’m here to tell you it could be worse. You could be working construction on Arcadia.

  I bustle out of the bogs, and—

  “Hey!”

  It’s one of Zuck’s security guards. Of course there are security guards. Many of them, all ‘roided up to superhuman dimensions, with earpieces and wraparound sunglasses.

  “Those bathrooms are for guests.”

  “I was bursting,” I say hopelessly.

  “Fine, but I’m gonna have to inform your manager.”

  It’s all over. We’re busted.

  “Can I see your ID, please,” says the security guard, one hand dropping to his taser.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Help! Oh Jesus! Help!”

  The cry for help comes from the ballroom. It hits the security guard like a whip. He’s off as fast as he can jog, given that his thighs rub together from too many deadlifts.

  I follow him, not because I want to but because I have to cross the ballroom to escape.

  “Heeelllp!”

  The few guests left in the ballroom laugh and shout advice. Two tables have been balanced on top of one another. On the top table stands a Klingon, while another Klingon steadies him.

  He cannot quite reach Sam, who is swinging by one knee from a chandelier.

  “Someone help me!”

  Sam seems to be genuinely stuck. Also, the hem of his trousers is about to catch fire (they’re real chandeliers). But I’m pretty sure he smiles, upside down, as I leg it across the ballroom.

  Good old Sam! He must have seen me going into the bogs, and got ready to lay on a little diversion, James Bond style.

  I shoot into the stairwell, heart going like the clappers. The security guard may recall my existence when he’s extricated Sam from the chandelier, but he won’t be able to do anything about it, because he didn’t get my ID, because I don’t have one.

  Three or four floors down, I stop to get my bearings. I memorized a map of the whole tree—it’s the size of a museum. In fact it is a museum to Zuck’s taste in alien memorabilia. Queerly enough for a tech mogul, he’s filled his tree with low-tech rubbish, statuary and frescoes and furniture the wrong shape to use, with here and there a busted satellite on a pedestal. But old Zuck’s got a nose for the good stuff, as well. That is why we’re here.

  I keep expecting to hear burglar alarms. Every passing minute supports two conflicting conclusions: either we’ve failed, or we’re getting away with it.

  I hurry on through cathedral-like rooms. Stacker brats are playing laser baseball in a room full of Perseid etchings. Couples shag on dinghy-sized Sagittarian sofas. You could drop the whole of Lisdoonvarna, my hometown, into this tree, and never notice it was there.

  Outside at last, crossing a branch as wide as a highway, I glimpse the real Treetop, the reason every yuppie wants to retire here someday. In the distance, sunlight dapples overlapping leaves that are so thick, they’ve got pits in them, and the pits brim with sparkling rainwater, so each leaf is like a lake filled with islands, or an island filled with lakes, and red and green mosses and ferms—all symbiotic with the great tree—fringe the ponds with shade. The air’s alive with birdsong and the calls of monkey-analogs and squirrel-analogs.

  If this were a residential development instead of a private kingdom, each leaf would have condos built into the leaves, all made of sustainably sourced bamboo and recycled plastic.

  Higher up, you get more of a Southwestern vibe, with pretty little lizards running around on leaves so dry that they crack into gullies inhabited by frog-analogs.

  Something for every taste, you see. Except mine. I’d rather live in bleeding Ennis, if I’ve got to deal with neighbors.

  But at the moment I do understand the appeal, for it looks like paradise out there in the sunlight, and I’m sure I would be able to smell the leaf perfume everyone raves about if it were not for the catering plane parked on the branch close at hand, emitting the reek of chip fat.

  I stride up the stairs and into a hell of steam and noise.

  The caterers are doing all the washing-up on their planes, so as not to contaminate Zuck’s water cycle. Dishwashers stand at a row of sinks, washing the King’s priceless Perseid dinner service by hand.

  The dishwasher nearest to me, white-aproned, sweat trickling out of the towel wrapped around his head, suds on one gaunt cheek, is Donal.

  He’s been working for this catering company, the one Zuckerberg always uses, for the last year, while I labored on Arcadia.

  He used to be the captain of an exploration ship. Now he’s a dishwasher living from paycheck to paycheck, and his hands are so raw from the bleach he can’t play the fiddle anymore.

  But soon he will be free and rich, and so will I, if we can pull this off. He catches my eye, and flashes me a quarter of a grin.

  My heart leaps. I shove my bundled-up costume at him. “Some arsehole’s spilt wine on this. Can you take it off at all?”

  “Oh, wine stains are the worst,” sings out the buxom dishwasher beyond Donal. “But I’ll give it a try.”

  The second dishwasher is Harriet, Donal’s girlfriend. She’s been working for the catering company a scant few weeks. She waited to apply until he’d built up enough trust to get her the job. She spent the rest of the last year on Arcadia with me and Sam, and if I’m honest she had the hardest job of all. It was her task to train the treecats to steal the specific item we’re after, from the specific place Sam told us about.

  Jesus, the patience of that woman. I have a new respect for her now. I’d come back to our kip from a day of breaking up petrified alien bones and find her and Imogen still at it, coaxing the treecats through yet another rehearsal.

  It’s not the stealing part the ‘cats had difficulty with. Those little beasts are natural kleptomaniacs. They can crack any lock in the known universe, be it a combination, biometric, or voice-recognition. I’d go to sleep to the sound of them imitating Zuckerberg’s voice off the television. It’s not canny.

  No, the difficulty was training them to steal the right thing, instead of coming back with sparkly rubbish every time.

  The coming back part was no problem, anyway.

  Glancing down the plane, I see all four of them sat on a counter, disdainfully accepting tidbits from enthralled waiters. Like four-legged homing pigeons, they unerringly found Harriet in this labyrinth of a place. Fecking hell, if they’re not intelligent, they’re something very like it.

  I pass my costume to Do
nal, who passes it to Harriet. She scrubs at the nonexistent stain. “That’s a bit better,” she says, and passes it back to Donal, and as I take it from his hands I feel the lumpy object inside.

  Giddy with excitement, I thank them and exit the plane. I want to peek immediately but I force myself to wait until I reach the jacks.

  Safely locked in a Portapotty for staff use—not making that mistake again—I shake out the costume.

  An object resembling a five-inch iron nail falls out and skids across the floor.

  I retrieve it and wipe it off with toilet paper.

  The treecats did it! Those little beauties did it!

  I am holding the Gizmo of Rejuvenation.

  Now granted, it hasn’t been proven safe yet, much less reverse-engineered for commercial manufacturing. But the media’s been full of rumors over the last months that Zuckerberg may have found the Holy Grail of the exploration industry, and there’ve been blurry pictures of the Gizmo itself, and long-lens video of the lab where they’ve been poking and prodding it, and shots of suspiciously young-looking Zuckerberg confidants. Of course he hasn’t used it himself, they say. He’s too much in the public eye, and too wily an old bird to risk potential side effects.

  Personally I think it’s a complete load of bollocks.

  But many other people are desperate to believe it.

  Cackling to myself, I put my costume back on—it’s a bit damp and sudsy at this point. The Gizmo goes in a sterile resealable bag inside my fake Denebite paunch. I don’t want that thing next to my skin. On the off chance it works, I’d be worried about side effects, too.

  Disguised once more as Dick, Lord Short, I head across the highway bough to a leafpad where a luxury flitter stands waiting for the use of guests. “Up to the canopy! You can take the scenic route,” I tell the pilot.

  The bubble seals shut, and I recline on the leather seat while we spiral up around the great tree. Every hundred yards of altitude brings us to a new ecosystem, fractionally differentiated from the last. At about the three-mile mark, the whole tree is draped in something like Spanish moss. Four miles up, we catch a glimpse of the giant aphids that make those pits in the leaves. Jesus, they’re ugly feckers. Each one has a handler standing ready with a cattleprod. Off our starboard wing, the neighboring tree rears up like a green cliff in the warm haze.

  Five miles up—the air still breathable, for Treetop’s atmosphere is thicker than Earth’s—we pass the employee housing. Each of King Zuckerberg’s many minions has their own flat, in a maze of spindly buildings suspended between one bough and the next, connected by walkways, and I’m glad to see there is a safety net underneath the lot, with lost toys and dropped cellphones rolling around in it. Children wave at my flitter. It looks like a grand little community, and I remember the sadness I saw on Donal’s face, before he realized I was there.

  He wanted something like this. A new life in a new world, lightyears away from bleak aul’ Lisdoonvarna.

  So he poured his heart and soul into the Skint Idjit, and the Intergalactic Bogtrotter after her, and all he’s got to show for it is one broken-down old ship. And everyone we know in County Clare lost their shirts on the Skint Idjit, and Donal’s been posting fictional updates all year, promising that they’ll be made whole soon. The timestamps prove he’s always posting late at night, after he gets back to the catering company’s dormitory. It’s not right, it’s not fair, and there should be a better solution than crime, but we were fecked if we could think of one.

  We tried playing by the rules, didn’t we? And look where that got us.

  I clutch the Gizmo of Rejuvenation through my costume, breathing heavily. I’m not interested in the scenic tour of King Zuck’s tree anymore. I just want to get off this planet.

  The Ghost Train’s just arriving as I join the throng inside the bubble-terminal.

  Keyed up with anticipation, the crowd lets out an undignified shout. All of them whip their phones out and video away.

  It’s a good thing smartphones now have built-in telescopic lenses. You can hardly see the blip on the Railroad high over our heads.

  As the Ghost Train glides to a stop 8,000 miles above, I ease through the crowd, as if looking for the perfect place to take a selfie. In fact I’m looking for Sam.

  Our taxi’s parked on the far side of the terminal. Imogen sits on the bonnet, natty in her taxi driver’s outfit, videoing the Ghost Train like everyone else.

  We argued for ages about the merits of making a quick getaway vs. waiting for the shuttle. We plumped for the taxi, mainly because the shuttle is going back to Arcadia, and we do not want to go back to Arcadia. We will be cabbing it to the Intergalactic Bogtrotter, which Kenneth, Ruby, and Vanessa, the last members of our crew, have parked on Treetop’s moon. Then we will vanish into the snowy wastes of a little planet I know, yes, the very planet I rented from the Arcadia mafia. Sly auld Fletch told them all it was in the Perseus arm. It’s actually in the Orion arm, not far from here at all. We will hide there with the Gizmo, and the buyers can come to us. Much safer that way. Sam will handle the auction through his family connections.

  But if I can’t find him in the next few minutes, we’re leaving without him, and I’ll organize the auction myself. The Gizmo—strangely heavy for its size—keeps slipping out of the bottom of my paunch. I’m in a muck sweat, clutching my belly like a pregnant lady.

  Security guards move through the throng, inspecting each and every face. Not sure what they hope to accomplish, since everyone’s got masks on, but it is clear they’re looking for someone.

  This is it. They’ve discovered the Gizmo missing.

  I pull my beak up higher, fighting panic.

  Suddenly, everyone in front of me surges backwards.

  For a second I think Sam’s mounting another diversion. But this would be beyond his powers.

  The elevator disgorges a squad of police officers in the blue and white uniforms of the newly created Near Earth Police Department. They’re wearing reflective vests and visored helmets, as if they expect a riot. They wave their non-lethal electropulse laser pistols at the astonished crowd.

  Jesus, the NEPD is going to hear from King Zuckerberg about this. The tech lobby said it was a mistake to create an interstellar police department, spirit of the frontier and all that libertarian bollocks, but the pols shoved it through because they’d had enough of the exploration industry raking it in without paying any taxes. With any luck, the NEPD will get its funding slashed after this.

  The sheriff adjusts a microphone attached to his body armor. “Ladies and gentlemen! I apologize for this interruption! However, we have received an alert regarding a theft at this residence!”

  A security guard approaches with a murderous expression. The sheriff grandly waves him aside.

  “We have received a description of the suspects, and I regret to inform you they are amongst you at this moment! They are notorious criminals and may be dangerous, so ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm …”

  The combination of a display of force and announcement of dastardly criminal activity—who would dare?—disturbs the guests exceedingly. They all stampede for their vehicles.

  The sheriff takes off his helmet and wipes his brow, muttering, “For Jesus’ sake, are youse the cognitive elite or not?” His microphone’s still on, so his words echo around the terminal.

  I let out an involuntary bark of horror

  The sheriff is my uncle Finian.

  I had heard things went sour for him on the Omega Centauri spur. I’d also heard that he ended up joining the newly formed NEPD. I could scarcely believe it at first. It must have been some sort of deal for him to keep out of prison. Either that, or he felt himself slowing down—he is seventy-six, after all—and jumped at the chance to spend his golden years committing violent extortion, and collecting a paycheck with union benefits.

  His officers overtake the stampeding guests. They make a beeline for …

  … someone else?

  To shoc
ked murmurs, they drag forth Silicon Person and his/her human slave.

  “Ha!” booms Finian. “Your criminal career ends here, Increpit, you blackguard!”

  Or here’s a better theory: he’s joined the NEPD to pay off old scores.

  “You can’t arrest me,” screeches Silicon Person. “You’ve got the wrong man!”

  “I’ve got you dead to rights!” Finian gloats.

  Styrofoam tiles scatter. A skinny male figure rises from the ruins of Silicon Person, still wearing his broadcasting headset. Jesus, it’s the infamous claim-jumper Ivan ‘Stellar Increpit’ Skowalski, whose face is on every top ten most wanted list on the internet.

  “You’re under arrest!” Finian snarls, while his minions search Increpit and his accomplice.

  The scattered guests come back. The police officers are trying to get the bag off Increpit’s accomplice’s head, and are having trouble with the chains. Increpit is calling Finian an unreformed old pirate, Finian is shouting him down with reminders of his past illegal activities, and the party guests are falling over each other to video them—this is more exciting than the boring old Ghost Train, is it not? I would like to stop and stare myself, but caution prevails. I sidle through the fringes of the crowd, heading for Imogen’s taxi. She’s standing on the bonnet, watching the fun. “Jesus, Imogen,” I mutter under my breath, “get down off there before he recognizes you!”

  The police officers finish searching Increpit and his accomplice. “Sir, um, it’s not on them.”

  “I told you, I told you!” yells Increpit.

  “Ah, you cunt,” Finian says. “Well, there was a theft …”

  “We won best costume!” Increpit shouts. We’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “Yeah, well you have done on other occasions,” says Finian, rallying. “Cuff them,” he snarls, and I think if this is how the NEPD is going to go on, I hope it gets defunded pronto.

  Increpit’s accomplice rips the bag off her head.