Jarod pounded his head against the steering wheel once, hard. This day couldn’t get much worse. He pressed the button that opened his hydraulic door and waited while it slid open. Before he had even exited his car, he felt a layer of grit settle over his body. It even managed to get into his mouth, crunching in an annoying fashion between his teeth.
Leaving puffs of grit behind his every footstep, Jarod made his way across the unpaved yard to the “office.” As he entered, a bell attached to the top of the door jangled a warning. He glanced around the musty room, finding a lower-than-normal desk with a smaller-than-normal man seated behind it. The man slid off his chair, becoming even shorter as he moved around the side of the paper-strewn table, stretching out his hand to shake Jarod’s.
“Simon Green,” the man introduced himself, pumping Jarod’s hand up and down. “Whatya selling?”
Taken aback, Jarod paused before answering. “Not selling. I’m looking for a shuttle capable of moonflight.” He wiped his sweaty hands against his pants. Desperation wasn’t a great scent on him. Jarod’s need for a ship was battling against everything he was hearing, seeing…and smelling.
Simon took a moment to dislodge a rough-around-the-edges orange tabby that was busy trying to disorganize the already messy reams of papers. The cat landed, and then began grooming herself, pretending she wanted to land there in the first place. The little person spoke over his shoulder while he made a halfhearted attempt to clean up the chaos. “We ain’t got nothin’ like that.” He glanced over at Jarod, apparently to see if Jarod was buying it.
He wasn’t. At least not without a fight first. “Big Ernie sent me.”
The little man snorted, his opinion of Big Ernie evident on his face.
Jarod continued, “And I’ve got cash…”
Simon stopped cleaning. He peered up at Jarod, his intent gaze perhaps trying to ascertain if Jarod was on the up-and-up or maybe the down-and-down. He must’ve liked what he saw there.
“Follow me.”
Behind the trailer, the surroundings went from bad to worse. Fast. What were piles of garbage and junk became mountains of garbage and junk. Jarod wanted to find something, anything, that was space-worthy. Something that could keep his hope of finding a ship alive. So far, not so good.
One of the tallest of the enormous trash heaps curved around like a bizarre retaining wall. The thought of what kind of “ship” Jarod might find gave him pause. However, the thought of going back to the Rogues empty-handed made him trudge along after Simon.
As they walked beside the wall, the little man disappeared from view. One second he was there, the next…poof.
Jarod stopped. Was this some sort of junkyard hazing? Then he saw the cramped entryway formed from the frame of a ’99 Ford F250. The front two doors had been removed and the opening enlarged with what looked to have been a sledgehammer. Crushed cars piled up around the truck so that it looked just like part of the wall. Jarod could have walked right past it without even noticing.
He crawled through, ducking his head to avoid the dashboard. As he exited the other side, he found himself face to face with a makeshift launchpad—and, quite possibly, the ugliest spacecraft that Jarod had ever laid eyes upon. Where did he start?
First off, the builders of this…this thing didn’t know what the word “aerodynamic” meant. Second, oh second, the damn ship looked like it had been Frankensteined out of the bad leftovers from the junkyard.
The thought of this “ship” taking them into space gave him the screaming heebie- jeebies. It seemed like a house of cards. One good breath, and the whole thing would come tumbling down.
As if to mock Jarod, Simon slapped the hull with affection.
“Good as new!” Only an unidentified part fell off with a clank. “Don’t worry. That was decorative only. It’s got all the specs.” Simon rubbed at a rust patch without any noticeable effect. “Signed off on by the FAA. All ready to go.”
Jarod scrubbed at his face. Even for him, this was folly. He might as well go get some duct tape and gum and MacGyver himself a spaceship. If only he could. Jarod walked around the ship hoping that perhaps the other side might brighten his prospects, but it was equally ramshackle.
“Or hey, go find yourself another ship,” Simon said, walking back to the F250 exit.
They both knew that there wasn’t another ship. Jarod had tracked down each and every possible lead. You knew you were in trouble when craigslist didn’t even help. It was this ship, or…Or going back to a regular job with a tie.
“How much to lease?”
Simon burst out laughing. “Whoa! No lease. Quarter of a mil to purchase.”
“Right!” Jarod retorted. He might be desperate enough to lease this bucket of bolts, but buy it?
“See the article in the New York Times this morning?” Simon asked probably knowing full well that Jarod had. It was the only reason he’d even consider wandering into this Hell Garage. “Who knew the moon was so small? Looks like they’re running out of stakes.” Simon shrugged, as if it meant nothing to him one way or another. “Or so they say.”
Jarod’s mouth tasted sour. “Yeah. Or so they say.”
“But hey, go shop around,” Simon urged. “I’m sure you’ll find something that meets your Armani standards.”
Armani standards? Dude. He would be happy with Kmart, or make that the Dollar Store at this point. But this abomination before him? This spaceship that the other spaceship owners called “freak”? um, no. Just no.
Jarod stalked off, smacking his head against the roof of the Ford truck as he left the “gate” to the launchpad.
He rubbed at the injury with more force than needed. Damn it! Why was the universe making it so damned hard to get to the moon?
With Gil here, constantly lurking, waiting to poach, even the moon was barely far enough away for Jarod’s tastes. There was nothing here for the Rogues while that slimy eel was around.
But that ship…
Jarod could almost hear Cleo’s voice, coming from a perch on his right shoulder, whispering…actually, she was kind of yelling…into his ear.
“Are you kidding me, Jarod? That ship can’t make it out of this yard, much less get us to the moon! Don’t be so irresponsible.” Yep. Definitely Cleo. Cutting logic followed up with a guilt-inducing insult.
Buton’s voice wasn’t far behind hers. “In order to ensure our safe arrival on the moon, a craft that can withstand the rigors of atmospheric exit and reentry would be far preferable to this…less safe model.” Ah, Buton. The big words mixed with politeness that almost masked the fact that he had just called you an idiot.
Even Rob wasn’t really on board here. “Ummm…Uncle Jare. Not exactly a babe magnet, is it?”
Right on cue, Brandi Broadhope showed up in his subconscious, all flaming-red hair and sexy curves. “You were pretty hot, Jarod. Too bad you don’t have any money.” Ouch. That one stung.
What his brain served up next was even worse. Slinking up behind Brandi, Gil slung his arm over her hip. “Come on, Jarod. You know who the real predator is here. You were never man enough for this one.”
That was it.
Jarod spun around to find Simon standing next to him. “Do you know a pilot?”
“Cash up front?” the little man asked.
Jarod swallowed. No, no he did not have cash up front. Maybe he had something equally valuable. “Did you see the Porsche out front?” Simon nodded. Dear God, was he really considering this? Putting his baby down as collateral? But he had to have faith. Faith they could make it to the moon. Faith they would find star diamonds. Faith that they would make enough to buy Jarod’s car back—and so much more. “How do you feel about bartering?”
Simon’s grin looked like it would leap off his face. He pulled out a baseball cap and shoved it onto his head. When he lowered his hands, the NASA emblem blazed. Its white lettering was stark against the bright blue background.
Jarod’s jaw dropped, one word managing to escape past his sho
ck. “You?”
The little person pointed to the symbol on his hat. “Passed everything but the height requirement.” He pivoted on his heel and swaggered back to the gate.
Jarod could do nothing but follow in his tiny footsteps.
* * *
Cleo stared out of the motel room window, her hand resting on the sill. She could almost see the sign outside from where she stood. What was the name of this place? The Sunshine Mountain? No. The Sunshine was back in Ohio. Mountain Light? Not quite. Wasn’t there a Terrace Light in Arizona? Mountain View. Of course. How could she forget the name Mountain View when there wasn’t so much as a bump in the road for as far as the eye could see? West Texas was not only flat—it was hot, dry and, from what Cleo could see, entirely composed of dust.
As she stepped back from the window, she pulled peeled paint away as she lifted her hand. Taking a closer look, Cleo realized it wasn’t just paint. A black smear of what looked to be Aspergillus terreus, a common house mold. It wasn’t generally toxic, but, combined with the three other species she had found in the bathroom, it didn’t make Cleo want to spend any more time here.
Turning back toward the room, Cleo saw Rob on the bed, one of his prosthetics in his lap, tinkering with one of the many gadgets he had designed for the false limb. If airport security had any idea of what those attachments were capable of, they never would have been able to catch a flight on time.
Buton was at the desk. His fingers flowed over his laptop, working on a paper for publication, consulting for some bigwig somewhere, or possibly even researching their upcoming trip to the moon. He rarely shared much about what he was up to. Cleo supposed that should make him a bad traveling companion, but it gave her space to think.
Just as she was about to give up on her vigil and eat some reheated Pizza Rolls before digging into outfitting the med kit, Cleo caught the sound of a car engine revving behind her and glanced back. So, she was the first and only member of the crew to watch the bright red Porsche pull up to the curb…way too fast…and kick up a huge spray of gravel as Jarod slammed on the brakes.
Jarod leapt out of the car almost before the hydraulic door had finished gliding open. He flicked his hand to start the lock mechanism. He was halfway across the street when he glanced around at his surroundings. Jarod seemed to take stock, stopping dead in his tracks and returning to his car, undoing and then redoing the locks, his hands flapping with apparent fervor.
From the spring in Jarod’s step, Cleo was hopeful that this might be the one they’d been waiting for. Although there was something furtive in his look. But when hadn’t there been since the Caribbean?
Jarod banged open the motel room door with a flourish, his hip cocked at a jaunty angle.
Cleo asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Find a ship?”
“You can thank me later,” Jarod said pointing his finger at her like a toy gun.
Wow. Red flag on the play. Whenever Jarod got all cockeyed confident, there was a problem. A big problem. She seriously doubted that she would be thanking him—quite the opposite, in fact. Before she could open her mouth to grill him, Buton and Rob swarmed over Jarod. Their enthusiasm nearly bowled him over.
“What are the stress point vectors?” Buton quizzed.
“What’s the backup protocol for internal power outage?” Rob jumped in on Buton’s heels.
In answer, Jarod threw down what looked like a roll of toilet paper. A roll of toilet paper that had been scribbled over.
“There ya go,” he said, acting as if that roll could answer all their questions and trepidation.
Cleo looked closer. It didn’t just look like a roll. It was one.
“This is on toilet paper,” she said, completely dumbfounded.
This was beginning to feel like Boca. He’d been sent out for batteries and came back with a 10,000-watt stereo system for the boat—10,000 watt. If they hadn’t found that schooner with the silver serving set from the 1800s…well they couldn’t have even afforded batteries.
“Let’s just say his copier was down,” Jarod said, brushing off Cleo’s comment. Then he gave her that devil-may-care grin of his. Second red flag. This would not end well.
Buton and Rob proceeded to devour the information on the tattered roll of bathroom tissue. Rob glanced up from his perusal to query, “Did you get our launch window, Uncle Jare?”
Jarod paused before answering. He infused his voice with what Cleo guessed was his attempt at humor. “You’d better get your beauty sleep, because it’s tomorrow, first thing.”
The room erupted.
“What?” Buton questioned.
“You’re kidding,” Rob said, his voice ticking up an octave. “Right?”
“Are you insane?” Cleo was somewhat pleased with her restraint on that last one.
Jarod seemed to take it all in stride. Cleo guessed that he had spent the whole ride back to the motel preparing himself for their reactions. “Look, do you know how long I stood in line at the DMV just to get the ship’s registration straightened out?”
Cleo wasn’t about to let him get off that easily. “Do you have any idea how much time we need to be space-ready?”
Buton backed her up. “We have equipment checks. Procedural drills—”
“I need to figure out a cool call sign!” Rob interrupted.
Jarod tossed down a newspaper that he had been holding under his arm. Buton scooped it up and began reading. “Prospectors Panic! Rumors run rampant that MoonRushers only have until Friday’s presidential special briefing to claim their stakes before the moon is closed to new prospectors.”
Jarod spread his arms wide. “See?”
Cleo searched for someone to agree with her, but Buton and Rob were back to their toilet paper. She glared at Jarod, daring him to spill the rest. She was 100 percent positive that there was more to the story. “Anything else you want to share with me?”
Jarod put on a look that Cleo knew all too well. It was his how-could-you-possibly-doubt-me? look. He only used it when he was hiding something truly serious. “It’s fine…Trust me.”
“Trust me? This from the man who just came in with a roll of toilet paper? Really?”
CHAPTER 5
Pecos, Texas
March 27, 2049
0748 hours, CST
Buton stepped into the middle of the junkyard launchpad with the rest of the Rogues and gazed upon the sight of their ticket to the moon. It was not a Kodak moment. The sun was shining, spreading beatific light over the hull of what might have vaguely resembled a craft capable of interstellar flight. The whole effect might have been better if it were overcast. Or raining. Or during a solar eclipse.
Logic dictated that, after climbing through the cab of a dilapidated pickup truck to arrive at their present location, surprise should not be the primary response. However, Buton was unprepared for the sight that assaulted him at this moment. After several long moments of silence punctuated by the possibly rabid canines populating the yard, Buton spoke. “I think that we should take a moment to evaluate the life choices we made that brought us this…karma.”
Cleo found her voice next. Buton watched as her jaw hinged up and down in several unsuccessful attempts before croaking out, “We’re gonna entrust our lives to this pile of…of…junk?”
Jarod pulled himself up to his full height. He also covered his tanned face in the snake-charmer smile that Buton had come to know so well. “Come on, guys. I’ve done my homework.” He gestured to the yard around them. “This is a certified launching facility, and all our paperwork’s in order.”
Even Rob, ever ready to leap before he looked, seemed to think that this plan of action left something to be desired. “We’ve got until Friday. Maybe we should spend a little more time shopping around.”
“There’s no shopping!” Jarod blurted out. Everyone swiveled in his direction. He hemmed and hawed a moment, clearly bracing himself. “I paid cash.”
Cleo went rigid. She looked exactly like a panther prep
ared for attack. Her voice slithered out of her mouth in little more than a whisper. “You did what?”
“Paid cash. Up-front.” The smallest hint of an apology sounded in Jarod’s voice.
From all that Buton knew of Cleo, he was more than impressed by her current restraint. It was also a distinct possibility that the restraint she appeared to be exercising was actually the beginning stages of shock. “You were supposed to lease a ship.”
At that, Jarod’s back went up, as well as the pitch of his voice. “Listen, I said I’d get a ship. I got it.” He continued with no little amount of heat, “Hell, the price even included a pilot.”
As if to punctuate his statement, a little person sauntered across the launchpad, giving a nod of his disproportionately large head to Jarod. He was whistling, as far as Buton could ascertain, “Heigh ho. Heigh ho. It’s off to work we go.” The little man arrived at the ship, and after trying and failing several times, managed to clamber aboard. Silence reigned supreme amongst the Rogues.
After many long moments, Cleo cleared her throat, her voice radiating quiet menace. “Jarod?”
“Hey, c’mon!” Jarod retorted. “Since when do we Rogues judge a book by its cover?” He looked around, seemingly seeking support, and got a few dropped gazes as recompense. He continued, “Look at us! Who would’ve guessed we’re like the double-oh-sevens of treasure hunters?”
Buton admitted to himself that, in spite of his misgivings, Jarod was correct in his assessment. The group surrounding him was indeed the cream of the crop. He could think of no team that had more of the specialized skills to achieve their interstellar goals than the Rogues.
And if Buton were to be fully accurate in his own self-analysis, his skill set would be even more fully utilized in space than it was out in the ocean. His background in astrophysics, while an interesting topic to break the ice with visiting reporters with whom he did not really care to speak, had been…underutilized up to this point. Yes, it was only one of his seven degrees, but it was one of his most favored.
Got Thrills? A Boxed Set (A McCray Collection) Page 28
