Read The Garbage Chronicles Online
Authors: Brian Herbert
Tags: #Humor & Entertainment, #Humor, #Satire, #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #science fiction, #Humor & Satire
The Garbage Chronicles (36 page)
“Namaba!’’ he repeated. “Namaba!”
Then he saw it on the top step at the opposite side of the pyramid: a tiny bag of fleshy fur with a yellow flower attached to it. He dropped Abercrombie on the ground and ran to her. “Namaba!” he moaned. “My God!”
Something creaked, but Javik paid it no mind.
“My love!” he wailed, overcome with grief. Javik knelt over her deflated, lifeless body and took the flower from her mane. He pressed it against his nostrils. It still smelled sweet. She had been alive only minutes ago.
A loud creak caused him to look up. The stone was dropping! A shadow had moved halfway across the opening.
Javik’s mind raced.
In or out?
he wondered.
Shall I take her and jump in the Dimensional Tunnel?
The stone lid continued to drop. It was three-quarters shut. Javik was completely in shadow.
But she’s dead,
Javik thought.
I couldn’t live on Morovia without her.
At the last possible moment, Javik grabbed Namaba’s body and rolled into the sunlight above.
With a loud
plop
the stone dropped over the opening. Dust rose from the area.
Javik did not want to move. He lay on his back with Namaba against his chest. The warmth of three suns caressed the backs of his hands. Namaba’s body was light, without substance. He wondered how someone so alive and so vibrant could be reduced to this.
A tear ran down his cheek.
In the settling dust, a parchment rose silently skyward, unseen by Javik, It was beginning its journey back to Sacred Pond. But Wizzy saw it when he flew up. And he saw Javik lying on the ground holding Namaba’s body.
“Captain Tom!” Wizzy squealed, streaking down in a bright green flash. “Captain Tom!”
Far beneath the surface of Cork, Prince Pineapple was lying on the ground, recovering from a nearly fatal attack of backflips. In a daze, he staggered to his feet. He ran one way, then the other, searching every passageway, every cavern. No one else was there. Locating the base of the pyramid steps, he stared up into darkness.
His head throbbed. He needed time to think.
Rebo wished he had accepted the vari-temp clothing when Javik offered it to him. He was cold. Damned cold. Freezing air rushed at him through the vacuum of an immense, universe-wide tunnel. Storms of gray and blue raged across his brain. Pinpricks of cold stabbed him. It was so cold that he felt hot. He remembered feeling this before, after falling into the maw of the Parduvian flytrap.
His body rolled into the shape of a three-legged fetus, just as it had before. Then it straightened, and he saw twinkling stars in the shadowy blue distance. The blues, greens, and browns of planets appeared and receded. Great suns came and went, blinding him with their intensity.
But the suns were cold. He wanted to get warm more than anything else. His brain became foggy.
Short visions of Namaba’s face flashed in front of him like props in an amusement park tunnel, then splintered as Rebo hurtled through them.
Now he was a fetus again, spinning, spinning, spinning. He was a baby, newborn and ready to start his life.
I can still be useful,
he thought.
It’s not too late.
He tried to shout this thought. It was pure truth and needed to be heard. But his voice made no sound.
In his muddled mind’s eye, he envisioned a ward full of disabled war veterans. Inexplicably, all the veterans were children, as if they had gone to war before growing up. Rebo was on a platform, delivering a motivational talk. Everyone respected and loved him.
The tunnel became a great ocean wave, contracting and swelling. It pulled him forward. Inexorably, painfully forward. His brain became the ocean wave, pulling him back to Moro City. He wanted to go back. There were important things to be accomplished.
He broke free of the water and ran through the tunnel in immense, loping strides—strides that carried him millions of kilometers at a time. Eternity pressed in on him. He had to hurry.
He sensed warm yellow and orange colors in place of the grays and blues. His body tingled as the cold dissipated through his pores. His frantic strides became slow-motion easy, with his muscles pulling him forward in tremendous, smooth bursts. He felt sleepy, and a calmness came over him.
Rebo remembered the magical meadow, wishing he had been the one to frolic with Namaba. It might have been that way . . . might have been that way . . . might have been . . .
A red flash tore across his eyelids, and he was hot. Intensely hot. So hot that it seemed cold. He shivered, then felt his body temperature normalize.
Rebo opened his eyes. A scowling Morovian police officer stared down at him.
“I got one!” the police officer yelled. “It’s one of those Southside Hawks.” He pushed Rebo over roughly and cuffed his hands.
Rebo saw a brass plaque just centimeters from his face. It read: “parduvian flytrap.”
I’m back,
he thought.
Back!
The police officer stood him up.
“Listen to me,” Rebo said. “I must tell you something.”
“Plenty of time for that in court,” the officer said. “They’ll pop you certain for what you did to that poor old guy.”
Rebo felt the officer’s grip tighten on his arm. Uncontrolled rage twisted the officer’s face.
No one will believe me,
Rebo thought.
I’ve changed, and no one will know.
EPILOGUE
Maybe Hoover was right.
Graffiti on New City park bench
Wizzy buzzed low over the prone, face-up form of Javik. “Captain Tom!” he said. “You okay, Captain Tom?”
Javik sat up dejectedly and placed Namaba’s body on the ground next to him. He mentoed for a soft terry-cloth bathrobe, and a white one wound its way around his arms and torso. Then he removed the robe and wrapped Namaba’s body in it. His movements were gentle, reverent.
“She’s gone,” Javik said. He stared at the survival pack, which lay nearby on the ground.
Sleep,
he thought, thinking of the tent and beds inside.
“God, I’m sorry,” Wizzy said.
“I loved her,” Javik said. “Prince Pineapple’s gone too. He went crazy.” Javik brightened for a moment as he focused on Wizzy. “You’re larger,” he said. “And your tail . . . ”
Wizzy flew in a little circle.
Javik ducked to avoid the gas of Wizzy’s tail. “That’s a nice shade of green, too,” Javik said.
Abercrombie started to regain consciousness. His eyes blinked. Still tied at his wrists and ankles, he rolled over from his back to his side.
“I have a much better color selection than before,” Wizzy said. “Many more nuances of the spectrum, with still others waiting to be discovered.”
Javik’s face darkened. “Where the hell have you been, anyway?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Wizzy said, glowing light red to study Javik’s thoughts. “If I’d been here earlier, Namaba might still be alive.”
“It crossed my mind,” Javik said. He lifted Namaba’s wrapped and lifeless form and carried it to a shady place beneath a pine tree, overlooking the big rock slab. He reached for the folding shovel on his hip, planning to dig a grave for her. But the shovel wasn’t there.
“Something wrong?” Wizzy asked.
“The shovel and barbed cord,” Javik said, looking around. “Must have dropped them someplace.”
With Wizzy’s help, they searched the entire area. Nothing was found.
“Where was the last time you saw them?” Wizzy asked.
“I’m sure I had them before entering the Magician’s Chamber.” He looked at the rock slab. “Damn, I hope we don’t have to open that again. I’ve gotta find that stuff or I don’t eat.”
“I can dig a hole,” Wizzy said. He flew to the spot Javik had selected and burrowed approximately a meter and a half into the soil, throwing dirt out in a pile beside the hole.
Javik did not say anything. He lifted Namaba’s body and placed it gently in the hole. Not knowing any religious words, he stood there for a minute, looking down at her and crying. Then he knelt and pushed dirt over her, packing it down with his boots afterward.
“I think you expected too much of me,” Wizzy said, hovering nearby. “After all, I’m only a little over seven days old. And I’ve tried to help you.”
“Big deal,” Javik said. He looked around for a marker, settling on a sizable agate.
“I think you could have shown more appreciation,” Wizzy said. He watched Javik grunt as he pushed the agate to the grave site.
Javik horsed the rock until he had it in place. “Maybe it’s a magical agate,” Javik said. “Someone for her to talk with.”
“Uh huh,” Wizzy said.
I’ve lived more in these few days than in my whole life before that,
Javik thought, staring down at the gravestone.
And now I’ve died, too. Prince Pineapple killed both of us at once.
“I still don’t understand all the emotions,” Wizzy said. “I’ve made progress, though. You’re experiencing sadness now.”
Javik searched the area until he found a yellow flower like the one he had given Namaba. Digging up the entire root system with his bare hands, he took it back and planted it over her body.
It’s done,
he thought.
Looking around, Javik did not see Wizzy. Then something bright green flashed in the sky, catching his eye. It was Wizzy, sparkling in the sun and streaking away. Approaching Wizzy from deep space and growing larger by the moment, Javik recognized the Great Comet, burning white-hot, with a wispy, smoke-white tail.
Hearing the roar of rocket engines behind him, Javik looked back. An AmFed space cruiser with full para-flaps extended was setting down by the rock slab. A cloud of dust rose overhead.
“How’d they find me?” Javik mumbled. He tasted dust.
Then he looked skyward and knew the answer to his question.
“Goodbye!” the Great Comet wrote, making a trail of smoky letters across the blue sky.
“Goodbye!” Wizzy wrote, in smaller, more uneven letters.
Javik smiled as he squinted to watch the comets swoop high overhead, like a pair of fighter plane pilots. It was a joyous maneuver, shared by a proud parent and a proud child.
“Hey, fella,” Abercrombie shouted, getting up on one elbow. “You’re gonna be a goddamn hero, bringing me back and all. You know that?”
Two crewmen appeared in the open main hatch of the space cruiser.
“Yeah,” Javik said, showing no enthusiasm. Wearily, he went to Abercrombie and removed the heavy cloth from his ankles.
They trudged together through the dust toward the waiting cruiser. The crewmen waved and yelled something.
Maybe I was a little hard on Wizzy,
Javik thought.
* * *
About the Author
Brian Herbert
, the son of Frank Herbert, is the author of numerous
New York Times
bestsellers. He has won many literary honors and has been nominated for the highest awards in science fiction. In 2003, he published
Dreamer of Dune
, a moving biography of his father that was nominated for the Hugo Award. After writing ten DUNE-universe novels with Kevin J. Anderson, the coauthors created their own epic series, HELLHOLE. Brian began his own galaxy-spanning science fiction series in 2006, TIMEWEB. His other acclaimed solo novels include
Sidney’s Comet; Sudanna, Sudanna; The Race for God;
and
Man of Two Worlds
(written with Frank Herbert).