Jed and the Junkyard Wars

by Steven Bohls

  Jed clamped his teeth together and glared at the deck.

  Kizer picked up the empty pack. “Nothing in it. Guess he’s no thief after all. Only a liar.”

  Captain Bog stood over Jed. “Now how about telling us your name and metal.”

  “My name’s Jed. But I don’t know what you mean about metal.”

  “Iron, copper, or rust? It’s not a tough question.”

  The tugboat seemed to have each of those metals. Iron grates, copper planks, and rust covering the edges of them all.

  He gave the captain his best puzzled look.

  “Stop acting all timid-like. We’d only throw you overboard for one metal, and we both know which one.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Stop blubbering and just tell us. I’m giving you a one-fingered countdown before I toss you over!”

  “I don’t know.”

  Captain Bog held up a closed fist.

  Kizer had iron buttons, iron cuff links, and iron boot buckles. The captain’s coat looked like some mix of rust and mud. And at least half of everything else on the boat was copper. “I’m whatever metal’s not going to get me thrown off!”

  The captain shook his head and lifted his index finger.

  “I don’t know!”

  “One.” The captain began to lower the finger.

  “Rust isn’t even a metal!” Jed said.

  The captain smirked, and the finger paused. “That’s certainly true.” But before Jed could hope he’d said something right, Captain Bog continued lowering the finger.

  “Gold. I’m gold.”

  Jed waited. Captain Bog’s finger froze—curled at its tip as if itching to drop.

  “Gold,” Jed repeated. “It’s a metal.”

  Captain Bog’s face broke into a genuine grin, and he barked two hearty laughs. “Gold is a metal! I’ll give you that!” He half nodded, half shook his head. “Gold it is.” He extended his hand and helped Jed to his feet. He laughed once more, but the emotion was gone. “Looks like we got ourselves a little golden boy. Eh, Ki?”

  Kizer smirked.

  “Come meet the helmsman, Golden Boy,” the captain said. “Sprocket, this is Golden Boy, Golden Boy, this is—”

  “Helmsman?” The sharp voice cut the air like a dagger. A slender woman, arms folded across her chest, sashayed into view. Her body swished like an alley cat. Copper-rimmed goggles hung loose around her neck. She wore a black trench coat with too many copper buttons. It fit snugly over a rustred top and black pin-striped pants. Leather straps with buckles cinched around her legs and torso, like dozens of little belts. Each housed a different weapon: pistols with intricate gear work and miniature scopes, slick knives, and canisters with fading letters spelling FLAMMABLE GAS. Two loose belts crossed over each other, slouching more on her thighs than on her waist. Bulletlike batteries lined the belts.

  Captain Bog rolled his eyes. “Helmswoman,” he amended.

  Sprocket nodded, then leaned against the railing. A rifle rocked in its harness on her back. It was unlike any gun Jed had ever seen: at least as tall as him—probably taller—with a double barrel made from twin copper pipes, gears and pistons in a dull copper frame, and a leather grip. Shafts and rods ran parallel to the main barrels, and levers protruded here and there.

  “Sprocket’s the ship’s navigator, mapmaker, and strong arm,” the captain explained. “Keeps watch in the stack nest.” He jutted his chin toward a lookout perch bolted atop one of the steam stacks. “She and Kizer man the helm.”

  “I do what?” Sprocket asked.

  “Oh, settle down. It’s a phrase, okay? I’ve never heard anyone say she womans the helm. Have you?”

  Sprocket shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt you to start, would it?”

  The captain turned to Jed. “She’s a bit frosty with strangers aboard. Can’t say I blame her. Especially strangers claiming to be gold. And just so you know, she was a copper javelin. In case you get any rabble-rousing ideas.”

  “What’s a copper javelin?” Jed asked.

  Sprocket smiled. “Means I don’t even need this shatterlance to be dangerous.” She pulled a lever on her rifle, and it made a pneumatic hiss. “Means I could storm a dreadnought in the belly of the fog with a half-depleted shatterbox”—she tapped the hilt of one of her pistols—“that doesn’t even shoot straight. Means I could—”

  “Okay, I get it,” Jed said. “Well, sort of. I didn’t exactly understand half of what you said, but I get the point. You’re tough.”

  Arms still folded, Sprocket stepped closer. “Where’d you say you port from?”

  “Port from?” Jed asked. “I guess I’m from Denver.”

  “Denver?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve never heard of that place. And I’ve heard of every place. What township cluster?”

  “It’s in Colorado, if that’s what you mean.”

  Sprocket looked to the captain. He shrugged.

  “Under which sovereignty?” Sprocket asked.

  “The…United States?”

  The captain and Sprocket shared another glance.

  “What metal is the United States?”

  “The metal thing again? Really?”

  The captain squared his gaze to Jed’s. “We’re not partial to strangers. So how about some answers.”

  “I’m trying! But I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t even know where I am! I took a tunnel underneath this junk and ended up here. My grandfather’s supposed to tell me what’s going on, but that’s all I know.”

  “A tunnel? Under the fringe?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “The fringe. The border hills. The sky stacks. The yard end. Pick one.”

  Jed remembered the towering junk that reached into the sky near the tunnel. “The mountains?”

  Captain Bog nodded. “Is Denver beyond the mountains?”

  Jed’s eyes lit up. “Yes! The mountains! The Rocky Mountains! Denver’s in the mountains!”

  It made a little sense. Not a lot. But it was something.

  Silence filled the deck, leaving only the sound of chugging pistons and whirring propellers.

  “Let’s take a walk,” the captain said, turning around. “Kizer, you’re with me. Sprocket, take the helm.”

  Kizer grabbed Jed by the elbow and pulled him toward a square hole in the deck, where stairs led to the lower levels.

  They entered a door marked CAPTAIN. Wood slats—some cherry, some walnut—paneled the walls. A pair of brown bookcases stood in the corner. Three paintings hung between them. The first piece was a moonlit forest, the next an ocean sunrise. The last was a woman in a red dress, dancing in the street under a rainstorm.

  The captain pointed to a cracked leather sofa. “Sit.”

  He rubbed his chin and assessed Jed up and down. “Fresh set of jeans, clean face, smooth hands, out in the middle of nowhere up by the fringe. What do you think, Ki?”

  “Bunch of glittertales. No ship’s been past the fringe. None that I’ve heard of. Not one scrounger or relic stalker has even seen the tip of a sky stack.”

  “Relic stalker?” Jed asked.

  “Quiet, boy,” the captain said. “But still…if this boy knows of a tunnel…” He glanced at one of the bookshelves.

  “You actually believe those glittertales?”

  Jed squinted at the bindings of the “fantasy” books.

  Black Hawk Down.

  Tuesdays with Morrie.

  The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank.

  The Encyclopaedia Britannica.

  “What is this place?” Jed asked.

  “What do you mean?” the captain asked.

  “All of it. All of this junk. I’ve never seen anything like it. Where am I?”

  “You’re between fog and fringe like every other man alive! What are you playing at? Tell us where you’re from!”

  “From there.” Jed pointed at the painting of the woman in the rain.

  Kizer scoffed.
“Oh, please…You’re not from some glittertale sovereignty where water falls from the sky.”

  “You mean rain? Are you saying it doesn’t rain here?”

  Captain Bog looked at his bookshelf. “I’ve read about rain.”

  “He’s a liar!” Kizer shouted. “It’s all scrap stories! How could anyone live where water fell on top of them all the time? The town motors would be dead in a week!”

  “Why would a town need motors?”

  “Oh, I see…you must use glitter wings to make your township stay in the sky. Yes?”

  “The sky? Denver’s not in the sky. Why would it be?”

  “Maybe so it isn’t obliterated during a junkstorm? Or, wait—let me guess—Denver is so special that junk just falls from the sky all around it but never above it.”

  “Junk doesn’t fall from the sky anywhere. Ever.”

  Kizer made another dismissive noise.

  “If it doesn’t rain here, where do you get your water?” Jed asked.

  “Township pumps, where else?” Kizer said.

  “Where do the pumps get it?”

  “How am I supposed to know? I’m not a pump engineer. Besides, if water fell from the sky, how would your ships stay dry?”

  “We don’t have ships, because there’s no junk.”

  “No junk?”

  “Not like this, at least. Not all over the ground. Nobody uses junk. We bury it.”

  “Now you do have junk but you bury it? Your lies aren’t adding up.”

  “Where do you get food if you don’t use junk?” the captain asked. “What do you live in? Where do you find clothes?”

  “We make them.”

  “Out of what?”

  “Don’t you have any trees?” Jed asked.

  Kizer and the captain looked at each other with blank stares.

  “We find things called trees and cut them up, then make them into other things. I guess it’s kind of like the junk here, because trees are everywhere.” Jed pointed to the painting of the moonlit forest. “They grow big and then we cut them apart and make things out of them.”

  “Grow?” Kizer’s voice was dark and accusing.

  “Yeah, they’re alive.” Kizer’s eyes narrowed. The look made Jed’s skin itch. “They’re made out of wood and grow and make things like food. And when they get big enough, we cut them apart and make houses.”

  “Living junk. That you chop up and make into…things.”

  “I—I guess?” Jed said.

  Kizer turned to the captain. “Sound familiar?”

  The captain rolled his eyes. “That’s ridiculous, Ki.”

  “Did you hear what he just said?”

  “Look at him. Scrawny thing like that? Dainty skin and pouty eyes? No.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jed asked.

  Captain Bog held up a hand. “All right, that’s enough. From both of you. Story hour’s over. Either Golden Boy has answers and won’t give them up, or he doesn’t know. Either way, this is a waste of time.”

  “But Captain, he’s clearly—”

  “Leave it alone, Ki. That’s an order.” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Sprocket! Get down here!”

  Footsteps pattered above them; then Sprocket entered the cabin.

  She gave an exaggerated curtsy. “You called, great and merciful captain of my life?”

  “Take care of Golden Boy until we arrive.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Take him to the mess and feed him a can. Or half a can. Or whatever’s left in the garbage. I don’t care. Just take him.”

  Sprocket folded her arms. “Babysitting? Really? I trained as a copper javelin. I’ve infiltrated iron prison camps. I could blast a falcon pilot’s eyelash off his pretty little face. And you want me to spoon-feed a six-year-old?”

  “Now,” he said. “That’s an order.”

  Sprocket turned to Kizer. “So it’s a ‘that’s an order’ day, is it?”

  Kizer gave her a small shrug, though he didn’t stop glaring at Jed.

  “Oookaaay,” Sprocket said. “Well, come on, then, Golden Boy.”

  Jed tried not to look at Kizer as he followed Sprocket out the door. The man hated him, and Jed had no idea why.

  The mess was an open room with mismatched chairs around a chalkboard tabletop propped up by four barrels.

  Shelves packed with hundreds of cans lined the back wall.

  A man in a shirt the color of old dishwater sat in the corner, spooning diced pineapple into his mouth. The shirt was three sizes too small, and the man was ten sizes too big. As Sprocket entered, he scrambled upright.

  His enormous belly didn’t slouch over his belt. Instead he looked like a stiff beach ball, his arms perpetually lifted from his torso. A sparse patch of hair sprouted from his head like the stem of a carrot.

  “This is Pobble, the ship’s bard,” Sprocket said. “He eats and plays fiddle.”

  “Nah…” Pobble said, his head drooping and chin smooshing into his neck. “A knob broke on my fiddle. But Riggs is going to fix it up.”

  “This is Pobble,” Sprocket said again. “He eats.”

  “I’m Jed.”

  Pobble’s face brightened. “Nice to meet you!”

  Pobble grabbed Jed’s hand and shook. His palm swallowed Jed’s.

  “Where do you port from?” Pobble asked.

  “I—”

  Sprocket held up her hand. “Nope. Don’t even get started on that. Let’s agree he’s from far away. Far, far away.”

  “Wow…” Pobble’s eyes glistened like wet Ping-Pong balls. “Sounds exotic. Bet there’s neat junk out far, far away.”

  “Are those all cans of food?” Jed asked, pointing to the shelves.

  “Yup.” Pobble puffed out his chest with pride. “For the most part. Can’t say I consider spinach actual food. You hungry?”

  “Do you eat everything from cans?”

  Pobble squeaked. “Course we don’t! Bowls and plates are over there.” He pointed to a china cabinet stocked with dishes and silverware just as mismatched as the chairs.

  “No, I mean does all your food come from cans?”

  “Where else would it come from?”

  Jed eyed the cans. “But how do you find so many in all that junk?”

  Pobble assumed his pride pose again. “We’re the best scroungers in the yard.”

  “It’s not that hard,” Sprocket said. “Look! A can on the ground!” She pretended to see a can at her feet. “I think I’m going to pick it up! Yup. Real tough.”

  Pobble frowned. But then he smiled at Jed. “How about some chili?”

  Jed smiled back. “Sure.”

  Pobble selected two cans. He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and began stabbing the can around the rim.

  “What are you doing?”

  He looked up. “We have to open it. The chili’s inside.”

  “I know how canned food works,” Jed said. “Why don’t you use this?” He dropped the emergency pack and unzipped the pocket with the can opener.

  “What’s that?” Pobble asked.

  “You’ve never seen a can opener? How is that possible? You said everything you eat comes from cans!” Jed took the can and wedged the can opener around its rim. As he twisted the handle, Pobble’s Ping-Pong ball eyes returned in full force.

  Jed popped off the lid and handed the can back to Pobble.

  “Can I try?” Pobble asked.

  Jed showed him how to fit it on the second can. Pobble twisted until the lid popped free, then handed the chili to Jed.

  “Thanks,” Jed said.

  Pobble spooned a bite into his mouth.

  “Do you have a microwave or stove or something?” Jed asked.

  “A what?” Bits of chili garbled Pobble’s words.

  “To heat it up. You don’t heat it up?”

  “Heat what up?”

  “The food.”

  Pobble and Sprocket both looked at the chili.

  “Why would I heat up fo
od?” Pobble asked.

  “So it’s warm,” Jed said.

  Pobble studied the can.

  “Never mind,” Jed said. He found a spoon and took a bite of his cold chili.

  “So what metal are you?” Pobble asked.

  Sprocket snickered. “He says he’s gold.”

  “Ha!” Pobble bellowed. “Good one. Good one. Yeah, me too! I’m gold too!”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me what metal I am?” Jed asked. “I don’t know what that means.”

  Pobble stopped laughing. “Really? How far away are you from?”

  “Pretty far, I guess,” Jed said.

  “Come on over here. I’ll show you.”

  Jed tailed Pobble to the left side of the room, where a floor-to-ceiling map covered the wall. In truth, it looked more like a treasure map than a map map. At the right edge, there was a solid black vertical strip. At the left edge, there was a solid brown vertical strip. And in the middle, there were large sections shaded in silver, orange, and red.

  “Iron, copper, and rust,” Pobble said pointing to the splotches of color.

  “What metal are you all?”

  “Rust!” Pobble said excitedly.

  “But rust isn’t really a metal, is it?”

  “That’s the point,” Sprocket said. “We don’t belong to anyone.”

  “So there’s no gold?” Jed asked.

  “Not anymore, at least. Have you never heard the story of gold?”

  Jed shook his head.

  “Well, pull up a seat!”

  Pobble pulled out chairs, and they sat around the table.

  Sprocket took out her shatterlance and an oily rag. “Might as well do something useful. Our bard has a habit of droning on. And on. And—”

  “Once upon a storm…” Pobble said, his arms wide and his eyes filled with excitement, “there was a man more golden than the sun. He lived hundreds of years ago—maybe even thousands. Nobody knows for sure.”

  Sprocket smirked. “That’s sort of a big difference, don’t you think?”

  “How about you let me tell the story,” Pobble said. He began again. “Thousands of years ago, before the yard had junk, before towns flew in the sky, before—”

  “Are we almost at the end?” Sprocket asked.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Pobble said to Jed. “She has the attention of a deck slug…one without very good attention.