King's County (8 page)

"I read and listened to audios while
out in space. There was a lot of time for that. Not just art, all
kinds of things." I said.

His eyes narrowed and he raised his
can, "I salute you then. Jackie said you might be interesting to
know."

Jackie was Clarke. Jack Clarke, Jackie,
Jacko, or JCC, sometimes.

Braulio invited me to take one of his
ballet models into an adjacent bedroom then he excused himself,
saying he'd return for me in a few hours. It was awkward for a
moment, sitting there alone in that room. But I took the hand of
the nearest one, the now tranquil face scratcher, and led her away.
I got it over with as fast as possible.

&

The three of us stood around the table
jabbering at each other. At regular intervals, Braulio pieced out
the white powder in tiny little doses, keeping us going and adding
an element of anticipation.

"I am the bloody writer around here. I
am the arbiter of the written word, as far as any of these idiots
could ever know. None of these kids comes fucking close. I'm a GOD
as far as they know."

Clarke paused to light a smoke and blow
a huge cloud above our heads,

"Nothing to say - never. We've got,
here's your students, look: ducks. Ducks. That's it. Ducks in the
pond, ducks lined up, and out of fucking proportion to boot. Why
would anyone care? I don't care. This is - what - what is it? It's
totally bloody fucking insane."

Clarke was foaming and starting to
shake. I was beginning to see why Braulio was so careful with the
white powder. I needed to change the subject,

"What do you think I could do around
here? I can't paint or draw. Maybe I could learn something, in
enough time."

Braulio’s eyes were tightened and
watery from snorting the acrid powder. He motioned for me to lean
in,

"You worry, even now. I'm going to show
you something. Jackie, you need to see this, too.” He waved his
hands for attention, “Everyone get a fresh drink, we’re going
out."

&

We walked out of the square and went
east, away from the waterfront, through the vacant downtown. It was
mid afternoon but cloudy enough that it was as dark as dusk. Clarke
and Braulio chatted, walking smartly abreast while I followed and
listened. My army boots squeaked a little on the damp
sidewalk.

I craned my neck up to get a look at
the modified buildings. Giant banana trees hung out of a terrace on
a high floor of what I think was once a condominium. Mist covered
my face and ran salt into the corner of my mouth.

"Roooff! Roooff, Roooff,
Roooff!"

"Howwwwwlll! HowHowHowww."

Braulio and Clarke had stepped into the
street and were making dog noises, harassing a group of three men
on the opposite side.

They looked like the market traders
from the night before. They stopped walking to roar insults back at
us. They called us queers.

It escalated. I stayed put and watched
them meet in the middle of the empty street. At about five meters
they slowed and started circling. Dread was on all their faces. At
this range, the taunts came more carefully, less
frequently.

Clarke lunged into the bunch whipping
his thin hands at them in a few frantic slaps. Everyone in the
scrum, Clarke included, recoiled at his attack, cringing, holding
their arms up around their head.

The shorter, stockier of the three
traders made the next move. He kept his arms up as a shield as he
advanced forward bent at the knees like he was walking into a
hurricane. Clarke and Braulio both slapped at his arms but he stood
his ground and weathered the blows.

The slapping got more intense, their
confidence was increasing. The trader was stuck in place. His
friends panicked and ran. Clarke became frenzied. He alternated
hitting with one hand after the other, raising them over his head
and slapping his palms down onto the man’s reddening
arms.

The trader’s knees buckled and he went
down. He was terrified; Braulio turned sick and whitened at the
sight of it. Clarke was wild-eyed, his lungs heaved; he stopped
swinging.

The trader’s suit was ruined. Something
in him broke. He began crying. His friends watched dumbly from the
corner, far away at the end of the block. The fight was over - I
pulled my friends back to the sidewalk to let him get
away.

&

In the aftermath, I worked to calm them
down. Clarke furiously chained smoked. I had to help him light the
first one. Braulio killed his thermos can of whatever he was
drinking then drank all of mine.

The building we sought wasn’t far.
Braulio’s card turned the lights green. The door clicked and
cracked opened a bit for us.

There was a foyer of dusty black
marble. The fittings were of tarnished brass in an ornate style
from the twentieth century. A bank of three elevators was at the
end. At the middle one, Braulio pulled out his card again and it
opened with an oily slickness.

Clarke was quiet. He seemed genuinely
curious to find out why we had been brought here. Braulio didn't
offer any explanation. We followed his lead, standing half-drunk in
the confined space, still feeling the powder though its edge had
dulled considerably.

The door opened. Beyond the threshold
was total darkness. Cold air filled the elevator. Braulio reached
into a pocket on his khaki photographer’s jacket and brought out a
small flashlight.

We walked straight ahead in single
file. Braulio kept the beam of white light on the ground in front
of him so we couldn't see anything in the room. There was a sort of
musty paper smell and a steady cool draft on my neck.

After about a minute he stopped, so we
stopped. He clicked the flashlight off.

"Alright, boys, are you ready for
this?" He said and then shouted, enunciating each word into the air
above him, "LIGHTS ON!"

All the lights came on at once. We were
in an enormous room, much of the building’s footprint. The ceiling
was seven or eight floors up. Junk was stacked thirty feet high on
the sides.

We stood in a narrow pathway going
through a chest-high stack of framed paintings. Unframed paintings
were heaped behind them like old carpets. There were sculptures of
all kinds, most in an eclectic style, mostly a bunch of odd stuff
glued or wired together. There were the blob like things, dogs and
horses, lots of splatters and basic geometric shapes and patterns
of lines, circles, triangles and grids; and whole installations:
bedroom furniture, bloody toys, and naked light bulbs, everything
gathered up and stuffed into boxes. Along one wall was a tangled
mountain of paper mâché and colorful acrylic mobiles. In front of
me were hundreds of abstract nudes done in oil paints. On the
ground beneath the stack were a few small sculptures, paper mâché
turtles. They caught my attention.

I knelt down to examine them. One
turtle's back foot was labeled with a name: Opal. When Clarke and
Braulio weren't looking, I tore off the foot and put it in my
pocket.

*

Space 2070

The ship was not spinning. Everything
in front of us was. We faced Jupiter in a controlled low orbit,
lining up to catch the correct trajectory to take us
home.

The chips in our back wouldn't let us
vomit. The high speed blur of boiling atmosphere brought on waves
of nausea that came on suddenly, were quickly annihilated by our
technologically enhanced hormones, and then returned in what to us
in our slowed down condition felt like only seconds.

"Ughh, Jesus Christ, this is getting
old, man. Well, we can't speed up - it’ll take forever." Ed
said.

I closed my eyes but could still feel
the presence loom. I swear I could feel its immense gravity
overpowering our ship, pulling us into the core.

"Hey! Wake up, Captain. Take your
medicine." Ed reached out to hold a blue capsule under my face. His
southern accent was in effect.

"What is it?" I said and took it and
swallowed.

"Vitamin. Say, what did you think of
that Moby Dick?"

"Well, it was great. You wouldn't think
whaling was so interesting."

"Yeah, so I heard. A lot of bad stuff
happened out there, though. Bad stuff. That captain in the story -
he goes crazy, right?" Ed said.

"Yes, you could say that." I
said.

"Yeah. Yeah, you know I can't say I
don't understand. Out there at sea, stuck on that ship for so long.
Way out there. You know? It might just kind of do things to a man.
You think, Captain?"

I didn't like this. I was getting
anxious. I wasn't going crazy. Why was he saying this stuff? I
could feel my body sweating, beading and running down my back -
that wasn't supposed to happen,

“You think...I don't know. I guess you
take your chances on a trip like that.” I said.

"OK, son. Oh... well now." Ed was
distracted by something in his HUD, "I'm not wanting to make a
guess. Well, I’m thinking we might know something soon enough
anyway."

"What the hell are you talking about?"
I said. Ed ignored my nasty tone.

"We might have a little hole in the old
screen door here." Ed started to rapidly move his eyes, opening and
closing files in his HUD. The screens blinked. Ed was the cool
expert. But whatever it was wasn't getting better.

"Get ready, son." Ed said.

A wave of overpowering fear shot
through me. Actual trouble? Everything was still at 70-80x speed.
Our ship decoupled from Jupiter and whipped out of orbit. My
stomach rippled and clenched into a wet rubber ball. This wasn't
right.

We saw Io. Our path was converging with
it. There was a huge eruption bursting through the surface crust,
spewing molten matter out of its own gravity and into
space.

"The other chunk of Hektor did that!"
Ed screamed. "We’re losing it!"

"What’s wrong! What’s going on!" I
said.

"We’ve lost control. Oh - we’re done. I
don't believe it. We’re going in, Cap. Oh god, we’re going in." Ed
said.

I was too terrified to think. Ed
started whimpering like some small animal. The console emitted a
sharp beeping. We could only sit and watch Io get larger in the
window.

"Do you love me?" Ed said
finally.

I didn't answer him. He asked
again.

"I want to know, do you love me? We’ve
been together for 5 years now. I love you, Captain
Waller."

"I don't know. OK, sure. Why
not."

"Thank you." He said and was quiet for
awhile. The console beeped faster and a light overhead started
flashing red. There was nothing I could think to do. We were going
to die at 80x perceived speed.

We passed through the plume of Io’s
volcano. Ejecta rushed past at an incredible rate. We were going
inside. My pulse sounded in my ears like ripping fabric. I checked
the HUD: 165 beats per minute.

"Will you do something for me? Please?
Captain - please, before we die." Ed said. I hate that hick
accent.

"What is it, Major?" I said.

"Please, don't be mad. Will you touch
me? I want you to touch me. I love you, Captain. Will you just
reach your hand over here?" He said. His voice was high and
breaking.

"No, Major. I don't, I really don't
want to do that."

"What does it matter now? Just put your
hand on it. I want you to be holding me as we die. Please. Just
please." He was crying, sobbing. It was getting darker inside the
volcano.

"Goddamnit! This is fucked up,
Major!"

"Please do it now! For me. I love you!"
That whimpering sound started again, louder than before.

"OK! OK! I'll do it if you shut the
fuck up!"

The console went back to normal. All of
the flashing lights and alarms stopped.

"You will?" Ed said. His voice was calm
and curious. There was no trace of fear or the Texas accent. We
started rising out of the volcano.

"Well, Captain, it's good to know that
you're there for me, I guess. How about we don't speak of this
again, what do you say?" He said. "Oh, and watch out for those blue
ones. Another purple might set you straight, though."

“You're an idiot.”

He cracked up laughing and didn't stop
for a week until we were well away from the Jupiter system.
Asshole. Looking back, I should have just sped myself back up to
get away from him.

When Hektor’s half hit Io, the mission
plan was altered to observe the impact and aftermath. I didn't know
this, of course. Ed did and he was allowed partial control of the
module.

For the next few months, I was too
pissed to talk to him but I got over it. We had a long ride back to
Earth, a lot longer than the way there. And I had to admit it
wasn’t that bad a joke.

*

WA 2092

Clarke wandered around the huge storage
room slowly nodding with his mouth open. He was ecstatic, beyond
laughter.