Space Team: The Guns of Nana Joan

by Barry J. Hutchison

  There were three hooks fixed to the wall just to the left of the door, with identical overcoats and hats hanging from each.

  Directly opposite the door they’d come through was another one. This one had the same frosted glass, but with only one word printed on it this time: ‘Office’.

  A shape moved behind the glass. The door opened, just enough for a head to appear. Without his hat and overcoat disguise, Dan Deadman looked even worse. Cal tried to smile, but as he was dry-heaving at the time, it wasn’t a particularly convincing one.

  “I’m with a client,” Deadman said, in that voice like crumbling granite. “Take a seat. This won’t take long.”

  The door closed. A blind was pulled down. “Now, where were we?” asked Deadman, his voice muffled.

  Cal and Miz took a seat. The chair groaned worryingly beneath Mizette’s weight, but somehow found the strength to keep standing.

  “You think we’ll get to choose our own names?” Cal asked.

  Mech shrugged noisily. “No idea.”

  From inside the office came a voice. It sounded like chanting.

  Cal looked around the reception area. He drummed his hands on his knees. “I hope Loren’s OK,” he said. “D’you think maybe…?”

  “We’re not going after her,” said Miz.

  “Yeah, man, I thought I made myself pretty clear?” said Mech. “Besides, she’ll be OK. She’s got Splurt with her.”

  Cal stood bolt upright. Inside the office, the chanting rose in volume. The blinds clacked against the door, as if moving on a sudden breeze.

  “Splurt’s with her!” Cal yelped. He realized he couldn’t decide if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

  He sat down again.

  “Great, now I’ve got something else to worry about,” he muttered. “I hope they’re both OK.”

  Miz shrugged. “We’ll probably never know.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” said Cal. “They’ll be back. Or we’ll find a new ship and—”

  “No, ‘we’ won’t,” said Mech. “I already told you, but I’ll say it one more time. I ain’t getting involved. I can’t, man. I just can’t.”

  From inside the office there came a drawn-out roaring sort of sound, not unlike a chainsaw. Cal raised his voice to be heard above it.

  “What are you so afraid of? I mean… I get it, I don’t really want to go to war either, but you’re an indestructible robot man. You’ve got a dial on your chest that makes you stronger. You’re practically built for fonking war.”

  “I was built for war. What, you think I was always like this?” Mech roared. The chainsaw sound spluttered to a stop halfway through, and he lowered his voice.

  “You think I was always like this?” he said. He clenched and unclenched his fists. The whirring they made seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. “I was a kid,” he said, picking a spot on the wall and fixing his gaze on it. “Fourteen. Barely. They… recruited us. Me and the other street kids. Most of them older. A few younger. Officially, they were ‘an independent militia organization,’ but they got their money from Zertex, same as the rest.”

  Mech shifted on his feet. From inside the office there came a low howling moan, as if a large baboon was having something unpleasant done to it.

  “Get your dirty hands off my stapler,” snapped Dan Deadman’s muffled voice. There was a crash, and silence fell again.

  “They put guns in our hands, pointed us towards what they told us was ‘the enemy’,” Mech continued. “I watched kids I’d grown up with cut down. I heard their screams. There was one kid – I forget his name – he was standing right in front of me, holding his insides in his hands.”

  “Jesus,” Cal muttered.

  “Was he OK?” asked Miz.

  Cal shot her a sideways glance. “I’m going to hazard a guess at ‘no’.”

  “He died. Right there with me watching,” Mech said. His face twitched, as if resisting the memory. “Staring at me with this look that said, ‘Do something. Help me. Why are you just standing there?’”

  Something thudded against the other side of the office wall, rattling the filing cabinet. “Oh, so that’s the way you want to play it?” Deadman growled.

  Mech gave himself a shake. “Most of the kids I knew, they died in the first few hours. Sometimes, late at night, I’d wonder if they were the lucky ones. See, I got shot, same as the rest of them, ‘cept I lost a leg, not my life. And legs? Well, legs are replaceable.”

  Cal looked Mech’s towering metal frame up and down. “So, what? You got shot in, like, every single part of your body? Man, that’s unfortunate.”

  “Not quite,” Mech said. “But once I’d lost an arm and the other leg, I guess they figured they may as well go all the way.” He tapped himself on the chest. “This is how I woke up. I ain’t slept since. Ain’t needed to.”

  Cal blew out his cheeks. “Well that was a pretty fonking horrifying story. Thanks for sharing.” He looked at Miz. “So, that’s his excuse for not wanting to go to war. What’s yours?”

  Miz shrugged and examined her nails. “Because it’s, like, so boring.”

  “Fair enough, then,” said Cal, and then a long, piercing scream from the office cut him off before he could say any more. It lasted almost a full thirty seconds, before fading into silence.

  The blind behind the frosted glass rolled up. They heard the man on the other side clearing his throat, and then the door opened. Deadman’s shirt was half untucked, and splattered with oily black spots. He nodded at them, then beckoned them in.

  “Next.”

  Cal and Miz stood up. All three of them exchanged a glance, then Cal led the way into the office.

  “Uh, nice place you have here,” said Cal, gazing around at the room. It looked like the bar fight from earlier had relocated here. A chair lay smashed on the bare floorboards. An ornate, vaguely star-shaped symbol had been scrawled on the floor in something red and sticky. Cal chose not to investigate it further.

  A large, dusty desk had been toppled over, and more of the oily black substance that stained Deadman’s shirt was plastered across a wall, and across one of the room’s two small windows.

  Whoever the guy had been talking to was nowhere to be seen. There were no power tools lying around either, but there was a door that probably led to a closet. Again, Cal decided not to investigate further.

  “Sorry. You caught me at a bad time,” said Deadman, picking up the desk with one hand and nudging it towards the center of the room. Cal noted he only used one hand to pick up the desk, because he only appeared to have one hand. Or one arm, for that matter.

  A quick look around the room revealed the other arm lying on the floor over by the window. Cal wasn’t sure Deadman was aware of this, but also wasn’t quite sure how best to let him know.

  In the end, he settled for pointing, and saying, “Uh…”

  Deadman glanced across to the arm and shrugged. Partially. “Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s fine. I’ve got spares.”

  He looked around for his chair, saw it broken into pieces, and leaned against the desk, instead. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  Cal glanced back at the others. They were both staring at Deadman in mute horror. Miz’s nostrils had clamped tightly closed in an attempt to block out the guy’s odor which was, even to Cal’s far less sensitive aroma palette, somewhat overpowering.

  “So, ‘Deadman Investigations,’ huh?” said Cal. “So… what? You’re a space detective?”

  “A what?”

  “A space detective,” said Cal.

  Mech sighed. “Don’t even ask, man. Just let it go,” he warned Deadman.

  “I’m a Down Here detective,” said the gumshoe.

  “Yeah, but Down Here is… well, it’s in space, isn’t it?”

  Deadman frowned. “Only in the sense that everything is in space.”

  “I tried that, man,” Mech said. “I tried to explain that, but he don’t listen.”

  “Huh,” said Cal. “I g
uess you’re right. I never thought of it like that.”

  “What?!” Mech spluttered. “I’ve told you that a hundred motherfonking times!”

  Cal shrugged. “Maybe he just explains it better.”

  “I used those same words. I used those exact same words!” Mech protested. “Man, I swear sometimes I want to…” He bit his fist for a moment, then crossed his arms in a sulk. “Just get what we came for.”

  Cal turned back to Deadman. “Sorry about him. He gets over-excited. You said you might be able to get us new identities.”

  Deadman shook his head. “I said I could get you and your lady friend identities. I don’t know these two.”

  “You didn’t know me, either,” Cal pointed out.

  “You can tell a lot about a person from the way they fight. And who they choose to fight against,” Deadman said. “I know you enough.”

  “Oh. Right,” said Cal. “Well, these two are friends of mine.”

  Deadman nodded slowly. Had it been any faster, Cal reckoned, his head might have fallen off. “And what about your lady friend from the bar?”

  “She’s… gone,” said Cal. “For now.”

  “Huh,” Deadman grunted. “Shame.”

  “Not really,” said Miz. She frowned. “And, like, no offence to you, Mr… Stinky dead guy, or whatever, but what are we even doing here? Why do we need new identities?”

  Cal opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. “Well,” he began, chuckling. “I mean… Mech? This was your idea. Remind Miz why we need new identities.”

  “Let me guess,” said Deadman. “Because you’re stuck here with no way off planet. Because your metal man here, he’s done some reading up on this place. He knows ID is a must-have if you want to survive, and he knows your current identities are too compromised. That about the size of it?”

  Mech nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “Oh,” said Cal. “And here I thought you just wanted to change your name.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered theatrically to Deadman. “His name’s Gluk Disselpoof. Gluk fonking Disselpoof!”

  “That is unfortunate,” said Deadman. He stood up from the desk. “I’ll take your pictures. I’ll make a few calls. We can get you set up within the hour.”

  “Ooh! Ooh! Do we get to choose our own names?” asked Cal. “Because I’ve got a few ideas. Off the top of my head, Burt Reynolds, Buck Rogers or Bonnie Tyler. And before you say it, yes, Bonnie can be a man’s name, too.”

  Deadman shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to choose.”

  “Oh,” said Cal, deflating. “Right.” He pulled together a smile. “Ah, well. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be perfect!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The door closed behind Cal as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, staring down at the laminated square identification card in his hand. His picture was on it, in a cool sort of hologram that showed him in 3D when he rotated it. He looked OK. Good, even. The picture was fine. The picture was not the problem.

  “Nob Muntch?” he said. “I mean… what kind of name is ‘Nob Muntch’?”

  “It’s a fine name,” said Mech. He stressed the next word quite emphatically. “Nob.”

  “I’m just glad to be out of there,” said Miz. “That guy totally reeked.”

  “To be fair, his arm had fallen off,” Cal pointed out. “That’s probably higher on his list of concerns than body odor. Although, he didn’t seem all that bothered about the arm thing, either, but…” He sighed. “Jesus. Nob Muntch.” He looked at the others. “What did you get?”

  Mech glanced at his ID. “Thark Dandar.”

  “What?!” Cal spluttered. “How come you’re Thark Dandar and I’m Nob Muntch? I want to be Thark Dandar!”

  “Well you can’t. Besides, it’s got my picture on it,” said Mech. “Sorry, Nob.”

  “Shizznod,” Cal mumbled. “How about you, Miz?”

  Miz glanced down at her ID card, then looked again. “You have got to be kidding me,” she said. She held the card up for the others to see. “Lashanda Loren. I’m the new Loren!”

  Cal winced. “That is an awkward coincidence,” he said. “Still, ‘Lashanda’ though. That’s got a certain ring to it, right?”

  “Lashanda Loren,” Miz said. She scowled. “I sound like a—”

  “Porn star?” Cal guessed. “I know, I didn’t like to say, but it totally does.”

  “Like a fonking idiot,” Miz said.

  “Oh. Yeah. Right,” said Cal. “That, too.”

  “Still, it could be worse,” said Mech. “One of us could be called Nob Muntch.” He let out a little gasp. “Oh. Wait.”

  “Very funny, Gluk Disselpoof.”

  “You mean Thark Dandar.” Mech smirked.

  “Whatever.” Cal slipped the ID into his back pocket. “Right. So… what do we do now?”

  They stood for a while, listening to the sounds of traffic and footsteps passing the end of the alleyway. They were tucked down a narrow lane, well off the beaten track, but the ever present din of the city was never far away.

  “Like I said, we go our own ways,” Mech told him. “It’s safer that way. Anyone looking for us, they’re looking for a group.”

  “No,” Cal corrected. “They’re looking for a team.”

  “Either way. They ain’t looking for us on our own. We’ve got more chance of blending in if we split up.”

  “Uh, hello?” said Miz. “Blending in? Totally not my thing.”

  Mech shrugged. “Place this size? They got everything and everyone. You ain’t the only Greyx. I ain’t the only cyborg. You…” He looked to Cal. “Well, you might be the exception. Don’t suppose they got many folks from Earth out here.”

  “I think I saw a Five Guys,” said Cal. “But I don’t know if that means anything.”

  “My point is, we stay together, we’ll be found. We split up and, I don’t know. Maybe we won’t be. It’s the best chance we have,” Mech said. “Besides, like I already explained, things have not gone well for me since I met you. I’m hoping that if we ain’t together, my life might improve.”

  “Yeah, but, no,” Cal began, searching for the right combination of words that would change the cyborg’s mind.

  Mech thrust out a hand. Cal stared at it blankly for a few seconds, then reluctantly shook it. “Good luck, man,” said Mech.

  “Uh, OK. Yeah,” said Cal, too shell-shocked to say much more. “You, too.”

  With a nod, Mech turned and marched along the alleyway. He glanced back, just once, then vanished into the crowd. Miz’s head tick-tocked between the alley’s mouth and Cal. With a sigh, she shot Cal a look that bordered on apologetic. “Sorry,” she said. “Mech, wait up!”

  She hurried after him. Cal just watched as she elbowed several pedestrians out of the way and plunged after the cyborg, leaving him alone.

  “See ya, guys,” he mumbled.

  He looked up at the gray clouds overhead. Still no Loren.

  He took out the ID and looked at it again. He wasn’t really sure why, exactly, but suspected it was because he had no idea what else to do, and this was as good a way as stalling as any.

  Finally, once he’d studied every last part of the card, he put it back in his pocket.

  He patted the pocket, checking the card was still there.

  It was.

  He interlocked his fingers and stretched, then yawned. It was quite enjoyable.

  He tried the same again, but with less success this time.

  He blew out his lips, making a sound a bit like a horse.

  “Right, then,” he said, then he made his way towards the end of the lane, stepped out, and was swept away by the crowd.

  * * *

  Down Here was the biggest city Cal had ever visited in what was, by human standards at least, a relatively well-traveled life. He knew this because he was standing on yet another unfamiliar busy sidewalk, studying a van-sized metal billboard onto which was pasted a map.

  At first
, he hadn’t recognized it as a map. He’d thought it was some sort of modern art exhibit, with billions of randomly scribbled lines marking the page. There was a circle of wood and glass, about the size of a dinner plate, attached to the frame by a long, thin cord, and when he looked through it, the scribbles and marks became just large enough for him to make out streets, buildings and the occasional green park.

  After twenty minutes of searching, he’d found a red arrow marked ‘You Are Probably Here’. When he moved the magnifying glass away, the arrow became a tiny red fleck he had to squint to find.

  So, he knew where he (probably) was. That didn’t exactly help him figure out what to do next, though. He’d been alone for less than an hour, and already his problems were mounting up. He was getting hungry. He had no place to stay. His name was still Nob Muntch. This was not shaping up to be one of his better days.

  He’d spent his last few credits on the fake IDs, but he wasn’t overly worried about that. Back on Earth, he’d always found ways to make money. Admittedly, it usually involved running a con on some unsuspecting rich mark, and the last time he’d tried it, he’d wound up sharing a jail cell with a semi-naked cannibal, but it wasn’t like he was exactly rolling in alternative options.

  First thing first, he had to find someone that looked like they had money to spare. That ‘to spare’ part was important. Other grifters he’d known had been content to take everything from their marks, but that had never been Cal’s thing. He took only what he thought they could afford to lose. That was how he’d been able to justify it to himself, and how he could sleep at night.

  The only problem was, based on what he’d learned about Parloo, Down Here was stuffed with poor people. Up There, in the vast, majestic cities in the sky, was where the action was. He leaned back and looked up. The cloud layer still blocked most of the sky, but he could see the occasional glimpse of electric blue from the engines holding the cities aloft.