Holly Farb and the Princess of the Galaxy

by Gareth Wronski

  Jalya bowed her head and said nothing. It was clear this plan had a few problems that needed sorting out.

  “And my final question,” said Mr. Mendez, ignoring another beep from somewhere in the room, “is where are we currently?”

  The nearby storage locker clattered and its door flew off its hinges, slamming onto the floor. A small, square robot lurched out of the locker and blared, “Fact: We are currently in Quadrant 658X of the Ore Nebula.”

  Everyone stared at the little robot. It was a white box with two stumpy legs. It sat there, glowing blue eyes fixed on nothing in particular, a fan whirring faintly inside.

  Mr. Mendez leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Now, what is this thing supposed to be?”

  “Fact: I am AsTRO, an encyclobot manufactured by Quantor Industries.”

  Holly knelt down and inspected it. Warm air blew out the vent in the side of its head. “What’s an encyclobot?”

  The robot turned in a circle. “Fact: An encyclobot is a motion-capable robot programmed with all known information in the universe.” It chimed.

  Mr. Mendez rolled his eyes. “All known information?”

  Holly’s mouth fell open. “This might come in handy.”

  Jalya tapped AsTRO’s metallic head. “What is the nearest planet?”

  “Fact: The nearest planet to our current location is Desolate. Fact: It is the only destination reachable in a vessel with this level of usefulness.”

  Holly smiled. She liked this little robot. It would certainly come in handy in school—although, Holly realized, using it would be considered cheating, which she would never do. As her mother always said, cheating was the first step to becoming a dance major. “What are Desolate’s notable features?”

  AsTRO’s internal fan whirred. “Fact: The planet Desolate is a type-four wasteland planet known for its extensive spice mines, ninety-eight-year-long civil war, massive worms, colorful butterflies, and extensive network of criminals who use the planet’s lack of major F.O.U.P.S.P.O. presence to their advantage.”

  Everyone glanced at one another. They all had the same idea.

  “Network of criminals,” said Holly. “A network of criminals sounds a bit shady. . . .”

  Jalya smiled. “Actually, I think this is good news. That’s just the sort of people who might be willing to fly us to the President. For the right price.”

  Mr. Mendez patted AsTRO on the head like it was a small, annoying dog. “And best of all, the pirates don’t even know where we are. They may still be after us, but this time we have the element of surprise.”

  * * *

  In the far regions of the neutral zone, the pirate armada was docked. It was waiting for something very specific, and had been waiting for quite some time. In fact, the pirates had been waiting for so long, some had started growing bored. One of them, a short, pudgy purple alien named Polt, decided to take his complaints to the Pirate Lord himself. He threw on his space suit and jetted over to the main ship, a large, misshapen vessel called the Kraven. It was widely considered to be the most fearsome ship in all the known universe, though one imagines it would have been less fearsome if people knew the Pirate Lord had named it after the inventor of robotic vacuums, Pinsford Kraven, Esq.

  Polt knocked on the door to the Pirate Lord’s chamber and a low voice sounded, “Enter.”

  He turned the knob and stepped into the room, bowing his head. He had never been in the presence of the lord of all pirates—head of the Pirates Union and the Pirates Guild—but he had heard stories. Many stories.

  Polt stood in the dimly lit room. By the far wall there was a leather chair, and someone was perched in it. Polt couldn’t make out that someone, since he was shrouded in shadow. The only detail Polt could see was a hand, wearing a dark leather glove, the fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. A faint wheezing sound came from the Pirate Lord.

  Two red ovals suddenly appeared in the face of the silhouette, as if the Pirate Lord had just opened his eyes. They looked like two burning embers.

  “What do you want?” came a low voice from the chair.

  “I—er. I am called Polt, Your Lordship. Polt, son of Pilt, son of Palt.” Polt bowed deeply. “I’m a bit new around here, and I was just wondering—I mean, I was thinking, it would be nice if we had a bit more to eat. I mean, just a bit more. Not a feast or anything. More like some nibbles.”

  There was silence, broken only by the faint wheezing coming from the pirate. The two red eyes stared at Polt. Then, finally, a voice stated, “You want some nibbles?”

  “Er,” said Polt, starting to regret his decision to come to the Kraven. “Yes, I guess that’s right.”

  The Pirate Lord continued drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Does the rest of the crew also crave more nibbles?”

  “Well,” said Polt, feeling more confident now, “as a matter a fact, the whole Pirates Guild does.”

  “And yet you are the only one here.”

  “Well, I think some of them were afraid to ask.”

  “Ask for more nibbles,” said the Pirate Lord.

  Polt nodded. “Yes. They, er, didn’t want to displease you.”

  The Pirate Lord drummed his fingers, and Polt imagined he was thinking things through, no doubt figuring out how to acquire more nibbles in deep space. The wheezing grew louder, as if he were struggling to breathe. Finally he said, “If the Pirates Guild is hungry, obviously they need food. And since you, Polt, have taken such an interest in the dietary well-being of the crew, I think it’s only fair that you get to be the one who feeds them.”

  Polt bowed. “Oh, thank you, gracious, er, Lordship. You are as powerful as you are kind.”

  * * *

  Later, as the Pirates Guild enjoyed a hearty stew of somewhat stringy Polt meat, the Pirate Lord remained on the Kraven, waiting in his chamber. Eating was an activity that was beneath him. He continued drumming his fingers, calculating other activities that were beneath him. Just when he was about to formalize the list, the door flew open and his cabin blob, Yip, ran into the room.

  “Your Lordship,” said Yip, out of breath, gills fluttering. “Permission to speak?”

  “No,” came the voice from the shadows. “You have permission to listen. The Pirates Guild is complaining about not having enough food. This is unacceptable. Take them to the Forge and show them what happens to complainers. I am the Lord of Pirates, not the Lord of Complainers.”

  Yip blinked. “The . . . entire Guild?”

  “Yes, the entire Guild. And you will accompany them if you don’t have some good news to bring me, Yip. Do you have some good news?”

  “Of . . . of course, Your Lordship,” the alien stammered. “I do have good news. That’s why I have come here, unworthy though I may be. We just picked up . . . the clue.”

  The Pirate Lord tilted his head. “The clue?”

  Yip bowed. “The clue, Your Lordship. The one we’ve been waiting for.” The blob grinned, showing two rows of sharp teeth. “The Princess was recently at a space port. We know where she’s headed. And we have someone who knows what she looks like now—and who she’s with.”

  Two lumbering pirates entered the room, hauling someone behind them. They threw her with a hard thud onto the floor.

  It was Captain Bundleswirp.

  As Bundleswirp looked around at the room she found herself in, many sets of red eyes stared at her. The Pirate Lord’s eyes burned through the shadows.

  “You have a choice,” said the frosty voice from the chair. “Either join our glorious crew and help us find the Princess, or I will take you to the Forge.”

  “Won’t tell you a thing,” said Bundleswirp, crossing her meaty arms and turning away.

  “That’s what they all think,” said the Pirate Lord, “until they see the Forge.” He stopped drumming his fingers and leaned forward, and the faint wheezing grew into a horrible wheezing laugh. “It’s amazing what they think afterward.”

  8
>
  TOSHIRO

  The planet Desolate is what many galactic scholars refer to as a dump. In fact, its original purpose was as a garbage dump for other, better planets to hide their waste in. A place so bad no one could care about it. For you see, Desolate is a planet so bad no one could care about it. It has no interesting features, no positive attributes, the only person of note ever born there fed himself to a giant worm when he realized he had been born on the planet Desolate, and it is considered Very Hot, the worst sort of temperature a planet can be after Very Cold. Simply stated, the planet Desolate is one of the absolute worst planets in the universe, and you should never want to go there.

  Note: I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to residents of the planet Desolate for my previous remarks. I am sorry if you were offended. It was never my intention to offend, merely to educate you on the terribleness of your planet. In fact, if you really want something to be offended about, you should consider being offended that of all the places in the universe you could live, you have the misfortune of living on Desolate, one of the worst planets in the universe, full of nothing and no one of importance.

  When you think about it sensibly, it is the universe that should be apologizing, not me.

  * * *

  The little spaceship containing Holly Farb, Mr. Mendez, AsTRO, and Princess Jalya blasted through the soupy atmosphere of the planet Desolate. It cruised over the sandy surface, across vast orange wastelands, heading toward a massive, craggy mountain in the distance. The mountain rumbled and spat out a stream of lava. Jalya, at the console, turned the ship away from the volcano and, finally spotting signs of civilization, touched down in the sand. Moments later the door hissed open and they stepped out into the humid air.

  Hot wind swirled in a mad rush. Holly inhaled, instantly regretting it. Dust flew into her nostrils and she coughed. Sand streamed against her face and she squinted, her eyes watering. She spat out grit. This was why she had never enjoyed camping.

  Dozens of parked spaceships lay around them on the flat, rocky surface. Holly surveyed the surrounding landscape, but she couldn’t see any buildings or people anywhere. She frowned. Where had everyone gone? The ships hadn’t flown here themselves. Or had they? She stood on her tiptoes and peered into one of the ships. There was no one inside.

  Wind blared and a tumbleweed rolled past. It uncoiled into a weird brown lizard, which scurried into the sand and disappeared.

  “AsTRO,” said Holly, “where are the people from these ships?”

  “Fact: They are on the planet Desolate.”

  “Thanks.”

  The robot beeped. “Fact: You are welcome.”

  Holly held a hand up to her forehead. Two suns hung overhead like gigantic eyes glaring down at them. Her own eyes fell to the ground, where there were faint footsteps in the sand leading away from the ships toward the desert. “Over there!” she said, pointing. Everyone turned, squinting through the sunlight.

  “Well,” said Mr. Mendez, pulling goggles over his eyes, “it looks like we walk.”

  Grouping together, they trekked into the desert, following the trail in the sand. The heat was blistering. Holly wiped sweat from her forehead. Her eyebrows were soggy. It was like she had just stepped out of a sweat shower. After a few minutes, the trail vanished. Holly looked up at the sky. Had they flown away? No, she thought. The wind has probably just erased the trail. She wanted to curse.

  “What do we do now?” said Jalya, fanning herself. “It’s very hot. My planet does not have so many suns.”

  Mr. Mendez knelt down and picked up a handful of sand, letting it fall through his fingers. “Perhaps we should wait. Whoever left the trail may return.”

  Holly crossed her arms. She glanced back at the ship. If they were going to just wait around, it would be a lot easier to do so inside the cool, air-conditioned ship. She considered whether to suggest this. On the one hand, it was perfectly sensible. On the other hand, she didn’t want to seem like a know-it-all. She looked up at the sky again and—

  The ground rumbled.

  Holly glanced at Mr. Mendez, who shrugged. “Perhaps the planet is unstable,” he said. “Robot, what are the geological properties of Desolate?”

  AsTRO beeped. “Fact: That is not an earthquake.”

  Holly’s stomach tightened. “So what is it?”

  “Fact: It is a—”

  A deep rumble echoed around them, and whatever AsTRO was saying, Holly couldn’t hear it. The ground shook and she stumbled forward and fell to the sand. A loud moan echoed throughout the desert.

  “Are you okay?” said Jalya, helping her up.

  “Yes,” said Holly, getting to her feet and brushing sand off her pants. “But what’s—”

  The ground lurched again and they all stumbled sideways. Holly’s eyes widened. She tried to shout but no sound came out. Around them, things began emerging from the sand, like a series of craggy yellow fingers on a massive hand. But as they rose, Holly realized with horror that they weren’t fingers. They were teeth, in a giant mouth, swallowing them whole.

  * * *

  “Fact: We are in the dark.”

  Holly fumbled around in the pitch black. Her hands brushed against something small and metallic, which she figured was AsTRO. Then she smacked someone in the head, which a muttered curse told her was Jalya. A foul smell hit her nostrils and she coughed. Her eyes watered. Still reaching around, she touched something warm and slimy, recoiling. She shoved her hands in her pockets and stepped back.

  “Where are we?”

  “I believe,” said Mr. Mendez, “that we are inside the stomach of a worm.”

  As if on cue, light burst through the darkness. Little orange dots, like big fireflies, swarmed around them, illuminating the space, and finally Holly could see where they were. They were standing inside a long, narrow tunnel. The walls were rough, glistening, and curved. The ground was spongy. Holly shivered, swatting a glowing bug away from her face. Her eyes fell on a small wooden building farther down the stomach. A sign above the door was written in a weird language Holly had never seen before.

  “AsTRO, what does that sign say?”

  “Fact: It is the phrase ‘The Headless Glork,’ written in the language of the Glork.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Fact: You are welcome.”

  Mr. Mendez’s eyes scanned the glistening insides of the worm. “Fascinating,” he muttered, “absolutely fascinating.” He took a scraping from the wall and a deep moan echoed from down the stomach. Mr. Mendez backed away, whistling innocently.

  Jalya eyed the little tavern. “I suppose that’s where we’ll find some criminals. . . .”

  Holly took a deep breath, trying not to gag from the nasty smell, and marched toward the Headless Glork. They entered through the rusty metal doors and came into a cramped, smoky tavern full of the strangest creatures Holly had ever seen. She walked straight into a big clear blob and bounced off it. She wiped slime off her face, shuddering.

  Various sets and quantities of eyes were staring at them. Holly moved closer to Mr. Mendez. Jalya moved closer to Holly. AsTRO strolled behind them like it didn’t care. After a moment everyone went back to their temporarily interrupted drinking.

  The bartender, a huge, meaty alien with four arms and two heads, nodded—twice—at them. “Can we help you?” said the two heads in unison.

  “Um,” said Mr. Mendez, “one shot of Tharian fluid for myself, and two Boko juices for my associates. The robot will have some oil.”

  “Fact: unleaded.”

  “Unleaded,” added Mr. Mendez.

  One of the bartender’s heads nodded and her four arms flailed around, fixing drinks. The other head eyed them with curiosity. “You’re not from around here, huh. Where you from, darlings?”

  “Earth,” said Holly.

  A hushed silence descended on the bar. All the patrons were staring at them again.

  The bartender’s other head looked up. “Get back to your drinks, you wast
es of carbon! I’ll wear your stomachs for a hat!” The second head smiled at Holly. “Don’t mind them, darling.” The first head muttered, “Wastes of carbon.”

  The bartender handed them their drinks. Holly sipped from her juice. It was actually good. Sweet, but not too sweet. She made a mental note to order Boko juice again.

  Mr. Mendez leaned casually against the bar. “Tell me, barkeep. If we were looking for contacts in the criminal underworld, how would we go about locating them?”

  Both of the bartender’s heads stared at Mr. Mendez. “Afraid we can’t help you there,” they said. “What do you think we are, darling?” said the one head, and the other added, “A dive bar?”

  “My apologies,” said Mr. Mendez. “A complete misunderstanding.”

  Drinks in hand, they wandered through the bar and sat at a table in the corner. Holly watched a slug crawl along the ceiling, leaving a glistening trail as it went. Four identical green aliens strolled past their table in a single file. Pink smoke wafted overhead. Holly had no idea if it was an alien or just smoke.

  Jalya’s wide eyes were taking in everything. “I don’t know whether to be scared or amazed,” she mumbled.

  Holly nodded. She sipped her Boko juice, unable to speak.

  “Excuse me,” said a deep, raspy voice, “but I couldn’t help overhear you three life-forms and your robot ask the bartender about criminal activity.”

  A large, muscular alien was standing in front of their table, his beady eyes fixed on Mr. Mendez. Then Holly noticed his other pair of eyes were focused on her. In fact, the alien had a pair of eyes focused on each one of them, even AsTRO.

  “Um,” said Mr. Mendez, “why do you ask?”

  “Oh. Well,” said the alien cheerfully, “it’s just that I thought maybe, if it’s okay with you, I could introduce you to some criminal activity.” He held up a pistol. “For example: robbery. Give me your credits or get dusted.”

  Holly and Jalya stared at him, mouths agape. Mr. Mendez raised his hands. “Now, don’t do anything rash—”

  “Give me all the credits you have,” repeated the alien. “And I’ll take your robot, too. I’ve always wanted a robot.” He chuckled. “You tourists keep coming in here, thinking you’re so much better than everyone on Desolate, but, if you don’t mind me saying, you aren’t. You aren’t even better than a Glork. Desolate is actually a great planet to live on, or even under. A lot of people say that. You inner-territory elites probably think we’re weird for living in a garbage dump with sixty-year summers that melt your skin if you leave the shade, but it’s not weird at all! Lots of people live in places that rain acid. You’re the weird ones. Now give me all your possessions or I’ll—”