by Brian Griggs
Originally published in Penumbra Magazine Volume 11 Issue 6
See the galaxy, they said. Fight for the Colonies, they said. The Naval recruitment posters didn’t mention anything about cleaning a toilet after a Broobingian slug. The stench bleached my beard so badly that I had to shave it off or lose my eyesight. Sadly, that’s not the worst thing that I’ve had to do as janitor – Chief Sanitation Specialist, more accurately – on a Protectorate frigate sailing the hinder regions of known space.
Here’s a little hint for career advancement: when you volunteer to watch your commanding officer’s pet scorvax while she’s on shore leave, make sure that the scorvax doesn’t know how to work the controls of the airlock. It’s been five years since Mr. Scorvax’s Big Adventure and still no promotion. Commander Cena has a deadly memory, which spurs me on to finish scrubbing the mess hall.
Dash Novabane may be the Chosen One that defeated the Coalition Armada at Tantil 4, but he’s a garking moron when it comes to wiping the food off of his plate when he’s done with breakfast. I scrape his leftovers into a trash bin. “Only two hundred forty more to go.” If I keep this pace, I should finish up with enough time for the crew to mess it all up again. Perfect.
A synth could do this job in half the time and with half the complaints, but with ten times the cold-hearted bloodlust for the destruction of all things fleshy. The Colonies are wise to ban every make and model of intelligent machine.
“Hey, Wendell,” a young man in a flight deck uniform says as I push the cart full of trash down the hallway towards the garbage airlock. I open my mouth to speak but then my brain reminds my jaw of Commander Cena’s disciplinary creativity. My jaw responds by clamping shut and me grunting, “Hrmph” at the crewmember who stands dumbfounded while I push past.
Sometimes it’s like I’m just moving my legs in a jumpdrive-equipped coffin. Other times, like when I’m pushing a cart full of someone else’s garbage, the frigate is a winding city designed by a drunk scorvax. “Would it kill them to put a garbage chute in the mess hall?” I ask no one in particular. The reasoning is that all chutes to the chill of space should be a safe distance away from where a large portion of the crew could be at any one time. So, yes, it could kill them to put a chute in the mess hall, but I think that the frigate was built to intentionally tick me off.
I push the cart up to the innermost airlock door. I look through the tiny glass window. You space one pet and you never live it down. Nothing in the airlock except the last two runs of trash, so I scan my card and the door slides open. I drag the cart in, twist the handle, and the front flops down like a troop carrier dispensing soldiers to fight the war on cleanliness.
The trash pile’s getting higher and it’s not like anyone else is going to clean it up. I bring the cart back into the hallway and shut the door behind me. Still no pets in the airlock. I swipe my card and jam my thumb into the button that opens the outer door to send an insta-frozen trash asteroid into space.
Before I step away from the airlock’s window, I see a three-feet by two-feet jumble of metal and wires whip back into the airlock. I shut the outer door so that the trash that I just jettisoned stays jettisoned. This new hunk of junk will have to wait for the trash pile to grow bigger before I log in another airlock opening. Every coming and going of every little bit of trash – and who threw it out – is logged by card and thumbprint.
Two more meals and two more trips to the airlock. It’s on my third trip that I pause at the airlock window. At the top of the trash heap is the same jumble of metal and wires that I saw fly back into the trash compartment.
“You’re crazy,” I say. “It would be buried by now.”
I step back from the viewport and out of the corner of my eye I see Vinna, a purple-skinned woman wearing a medic’s uniform. Her green eyebrow is arched and it looks like she’s searching for any cracks in my skull.
“Tell me you don’t see that!” I shove an open hand to the viewport. “See? See?”
The ridges on the top of her head bristle as she backpedals two steps.
“No! Tell me I’m not crazy. Tell me – “ Movement in the airlock catches my eye. The pile moved! I press my face up against the glass to catch it in the act, but everything is silent, still – mocking me. I pound on the glass. “It moved! I swear it did!”
“Easy, there.” Vinna touches my shoulder gently but firmly. “I want to help. I believe you. Walk with me to the sick bay and tell me about it.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“I never said that you were.” Her head ridges say otherwise. “It’s just that I have to get to work. I don’t want to be late and I want to hear the rest of your story.” She extends an inviting hand.
“Someone needs to hear about this.” I look back into the airlock.
The little trash pile is skittering around from one mound of garbage to another.
“It’s alive!” I yell.
“What?” Vinna tentatively places her nose on the glass. “I don’t see anything but trash.” She starts to walk down the corridor.
“Well, of course you don’t. You’re looking.” Hearing those words leave my mouth, I start to wonder if I’m making it up. But I saw it!
“I’m sure that it’s there.” Vinna mutters under her breath, “Whatever it is.” She’s an arm’s length away from me. “You know, I think I can see it,” she says to me.
“You’re not even standing next to the window.” I press my face to the viewport and see no movement. Had I imagined the whole thing?
Her voice is calm, measured. “I mean yes, I saw it.” She’s coming to look through the window with me. “It was dreadfully curious.” I can smell her; the residue of antiseptic crystals clings to her uniform. “Dreadfully.”
There’s a sting on the side of my neck. I swat at it, look at my hand. No bug juice. Great. Not only is there an intruder in the garbage lock, some fauna from a backwater planet has made its way onto the frigate and is trying to make a meal out of me. I’ve avoided the front lines for so long and now this is how it ends?
I feel my neck. It’s sweaty; so is the back of my hand, my arm. My vision blurs.
Vinna is holding a tiny gray device in her hand. She studies me intently.
I yawn. How did the ceiling of the hallway sneak up on me? I shift around to try and make myself comfortable on the corridor’s floor.
#
It’s freezing.
Correction. I’m freezing.
The Protectorate can build a torpedo to shred Coalition shields but they still can’t sew a gown where my backside’s not hanging out.
Why am I in a med gown?
I sit up, careful to hold my gown together. Why am I in the med bay?
Vinna.
She’s at a computer terminal. A hologram replica of me – backside and all – hovers in the air in front of her face. That purple-skinned hoosha tranq’ed me.
“We’re in danger,” I say. “I need to get back to the trash compartment.”
“You need to lay back down.” The tranq gun is in her hand again. “You’re sick.”
“I feel fine.” My teeth are chattering, my hands are shaking, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Has anyone talked to you about the blood clot?”
“The what?”
“The restricted flow to your amygdala has caused certain,” she weighs her words, “complications that can only be alleviated through surgery. Protectorate policy dictates that we make every effort to gain consent from a potential surgery patient and that the senior-ranking active medical officer performs the surgery. Dr. Mebto is on her way. Do we have your permission to proceed?”
“Whoa, whoa. Gimme a second to think.”
“Certainly.”
She turns back to the hologram. I scan for any escape routes. Sure, I’m pretty much trapped on the ship. My only hope is to lead the security officers to that…thing…before they throw me in the brig.
My thoughts come slowly, their pathways blocked. What was it that I saw? Was it such a big deal? My clouded brain lets through a picture of the ship venting its guts through a busted airlock. I have to get out of here or I’m going to be sucked out of here.
A light flashes on Vinna’s terminal and she presses it. “Medical bay.”
“Is our Chief Sanitation Specialist ready for surgery?” the voice on the other end asks. Mebto the Macabre, chomping at the chance to cut me open. Well, she’s going to have to wait. The ten-minute surgery recovery is ten minutes that I don’t have.
I leap off of the table, my naked feet slapping against the cold steel of the med bay floor. I stub my toe against a diagnostic pedestal. I stumble-spin out of the room and into a hallway.
No blasterfire follows me. Vinna and the other medics took the “do no harm” oath, so carrying a personal firearm would be hypocritical. It gives me time to get farther down the corridor that leads to the garbage airlock. I’m motating, pumping with one arm, holding the back of my gown closed with the other, and favoring my non-stubbed foot.
Protectorate security took the “do harm” oath, so when a door slides open down the corridor in front of me and two armed guards pop out to fill the hallway, I duck down a different passageway. It’s not the most direct route to the garbage lock, but neither is getting shot in the face. On second thought, maybe getting shot in the face is the most direct route.
“Stop!” yells one of the guards behind me.
In front of me, an engineering officer is crossing at a junction. He’s staring at a digipad in his hands and is oblivious to the fact that an overweight janitor is about to plow into him. “Move it!” I shout, waving him out of my way.
He looks up from his digipad. I slam into him, trying to push him to the side. He stumbles behind me and I hear blasterfire. The guards hadn’t seen him. A bolt strikes his back and he goes limp. The other bolts flying past us are blue and I sigh. Stunshot. The engineer’s going to wake up with a garking rude headache, but he will wake up – if I can get to the airlock before the intruder spaces us all.
There’s a pause in the stunshot, a sure sign that zapping innocent bystanders leads to mountains of Protectorate paperwork. I wait for mini-lightning to hit my bare back, but it doesn’t come. I am able to weave my way to the garbage airlock; I launch my face into the viewport.
And it’s gone. All of it. The trash, the trash monster, everything. I position myself to check the corners of the airlock, half-expecting the beast to pop up in the window.
Hands grab me, hold me in place against the door.
“You need to come with us,” says one of the guards. “You’re not under arrest, but you’re a danger to yourself and others. Let’s get you back to the med bay.”
I don’t fight them. Was the monster even there? Is my brain not getting enough blood? I’m not in binders. This is how I end my career, I guess. Forget a promotion. Hopefully I can keep my job.
I start floating towards the ceiling. Great. I’m dying.
A klaxon thumps in my ears and the hallway turns red. “All security forces report to engineering. Repeat. Security to engineering.” Commander Cena barks the command over the guards’ comms. They’re trying to swim their way to engineering in zero gravity, but it’s slow going.
They ignore me. I’m obviously low on the threat scale, right in-between a toothless sneercat and a fern, so I’m free to choose where I go.
I’m not a hero. Dash Novabane is probably on his way to engineering already, blasting up the place and combing his poofy hair – and I’ll be called in to clean up the remains of the battle.
I push against the wall to propel myself down the hallway to my janitor’s closet. Its door slides open and I grab a broom and a trash bag. The red light in the hallway stops flashing and the regular lights return. That means…
I thump onto the ground. Great. Gravity has been restored. I pick up my stuff and rub my sore forehead. As I’m standing around rethinking life on a frigate, I hear a metallic thumping in the ceiling. It doesn’t stop; in fact, it races down the hallway.
I look around. No one else is here. My brain tells me to stay put and yet my gut has convinced my feet to run towards the noise. When I turn the corner that the noise went down, I see the trash pile.
I’m not crazy. Normally I would celebrate my sanity, but I don’t know how dangerous this thing is. It’s at the door to the shield generator, trying to pry it open, so it definitely has my attention.
Should I get someone?
A living pile full of wires, food scraps, and hate? Not my problem.
Being sucked out into space? Now I start to worry.
The monster is almost through the door to the generator and a lot of things that go boom. I need to do something.
I look at my trash bag, tighten my grip on the broom handle, and I growl as I charge at the synth infiltrator.
Growling probably wasn’t the best strategy considering the trash heap heard me coming, shot a thick glob of an arm out, and threw me against a wall. It takes a few seconds for my lungs to start working again. I gasp what air I can and watch as the monster pries the door open. It’s rushing towards something in the center of the room.
I drop my trash bag and run to stop it. I am ready for its arm to strike, so I’m able to duck underneath it. As it shoots past me, I see a gap in the heap where the arm is stretched out. It contracts before I can do anything more than swing with the broom. I knock loose from its mass the broken base to a light and the O-ring from a fuel pump, but the pieces of trash zip back into place. I swing again, but no matter how much I chip the synth’s makeshift armor, it rebuilds itself.
The glob attacks again. I barely get out of the way by falling to the ground. I look up and see the gap. In its armpit is a tiny, hollowed-out space where a round ball sits alone. I roll to the side to avoid being stomped by the synth. I poke at the ball with my broom. The ball sparks, the armor ripples, and I poke a second time. More rippling and now an electronic roar fills the chamber. I try to get a third shot in but the synth is wise to my attack and closes itself around the broom handle. It shakes the broom free from my grasp and adds my weapon to its armor. The pile congeals into a fist and knocks me across the room.
Where are the guards? They’re probably searching for where the synth went. I have to get to a comm and get some help in here. No time. The beast is pounding away at the base of the shield generator, sending sparks everywhere. The ship’s shields are what keep things like asteroids and space debris from cracking the hull. It also slows down synth blasters long enough to launch a counterattack. This synth, though, is trying to take us out from the inside. It would have gone for something else if it were working alone.
More synth must be on the way.
I can’t believe that I feel unarmed without my broom, but I do. The only thing not bolted down is my trash bag. My trash bag. A crazy idea pops into my brain.
I grab the trash bag, wrap it around my fist, and run straight for my foe. It swings for me, leaving the gap open in its armpit. I plunge my fist in and grab hold of the core of the synth. I yank on the ball with every ounce of strength that I can muster. The core was designed to pull trash towards it, not to resist a middle-aged man ripping it out.
The gap doesn’t close around my fist. Instead, the living trash pile collapses to the ground. I back up with the core still in my trash bag-clad hand. A wire rises from the ground and flies towards the ball, then another and another. It’s attempting to rebuild itself. I turn tail and run.
A flying storm of trash follows me.
I’m not going to outrun the ball’s force field. I need to destroy the core. I run back towards engineering. Hopefully security has figured out that the threat has not left the ship. I’m right, and a good thing, too, because I don’t know how much more running I can do.
Speeding down the hallway is Dash Novabane, blaster in hand. I roll the ball out in front of me. He fires without hesitation. One shot and all that is left of the ball is a scorch mark on the ground.
The momentum of the flying pile of trash keeps it flying through the air long enough to coat me in grime. I really wish that I had more clothes on than just a med bay gown. Broobingian slug all over again.
Dash Novabane has swallowed a mouthful of trash, though, so it’s not all bad.
More security rush to the scene. One says, “We heard that something was attacking the shield generator.”
“Dash got it,” I respond. Dash spits the gunk out of his mouth in acknowledgement. While I would rather sit back and laugh, I need to save my ship. “But this thing wasn’t what we should be worried about. There’s a synth force on its way.”
“What? How do you…”
The guard is interrupted by Dash Novabane yelling into his comm, “All crew to your battle stations. Repeat. All crew to your battle stations.” He rushes to the hangar, the guards go to man the ship’s cannons.
I find a broom and a couple of trash bags. I don’t want anyone to trip on this mess. There’s a battle to be won.
#
©Brian Griggs