Gone With The Trash (excerpt)

Many years ago I proposed a collaborative writing exercise with some colleagues.  I sat down and pecked out the beginning of the following scene.  The collaboration mostly fell apart, but the idea did spin into something much more substantial.  This starting point is now chapter four.  For the complete tome, visit Gone With The Trash 


      "Stop, Dave."

       "Don't call me Dave."

       "Sorry, Dave. I just thought you would like to know that there is a garbage scow in Sector Five."

       "Sector Five?"

       "Yes, Dave. Sector Five."

       "There's nothin' but asteroids and debris out there! What the hell would a garbage scow be doin' in Sector Five?"

       "Orbiting, Dave."

       "Of course it's orbiting, and stop callin' me Dave! It's Geronimo, you... you..."

       "I'm a Dig Tech Model Number Four Byte O'Matic, revision two-a, Dave, but you can call me Matt."

       Geronimo Lavoriss twirls his Magno Swivel Chair(tm) to stare eye to electric eye with the Byte O'Matic(tm).

    "Quit imitatin' that dumb movie or I'll have your memory swept from here to the Snappin' Sphincters of Bramada dot Six!"

       He pivots back to the console. His fingers blur over the controls as he zeroes in on the garbage scow. The scanning grids lock. The detector begins to fart electronically. He whaps a red button on the panel.

       "Visual!"

       In front of him appears a three-dimensional Holo-Vis(tm) projection of the garbage scow.

       "That's no scow, that's a derelict work barge."

       "Incorrect, Dave," replies the Byte O'Matic(tm). "It is a Dustbin class one point four garbage scow belonging to the now defunct Galactic Gathering Company. Extremely ancient, I'm afraid. Classified as an antique."

       Geronimo shakes his head, temperature rising. "Check your readin's, blikhead, and plot a course for the WORK BARGE!"

       "Plotting... ready to initiate maneuver to the... garbage scow."

       Geronimo scowls at the Byte O'Matic(tm). "Initiate."

       The main MatterMovers(tm), the standard drive engines of most space-going vessels, fire up, gently forcing him back in the Magno Chair(tm).

 

       The New Gnu sidles up to the antique, Dustbin class 1.4 garbage scow. A long, elastic Gooey Tube(tm) shoots from the side of the New Gnu, sticking itself over the scow's hatch. Air hisses into the transparent, jellied tube.

       "Docking complete, Dave."

       "Stop callin' me Dave."

       Deactivating the Magno Chair(tm), Geronimo springs to his feet, which, in the ship's limited GravLite(tm) artificial gravity, causes him to bump his head on the ceiling. "Is the atmosphere stable in the... scow?"

       The Byte O'Matic(tm) whirs. "Checking... negative in quadrant one... negative in bridge... unknown in garbage containment area."

       "Matt, where's my Hand Cannon?" Geronimo zips the seal of his pressure suit.

       "The weapon you seek is under the stack of Spleenrot Squashwort magazines."

       Geronimo kicks aside the festering organic mags and plucks up the small, but powerful, Junior Hand Cannon(tm).

       "Dilate door."

       "Dilating... do you have your helmet, Dave?"

       "Thank you," he returns, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice. Latching his helmet, Geronimo steps through the airlock.

            Slowly, he flounders through the gravity free Gooey Tube(tm). Arriving at the derelict, he tries to open the hatch. The door refuses to budge. He draws the Junior Hand Cannon(tm) and blasts a hole in the door's control panel. The door seal pops.

 

       "Well, what have we here?" Gladius Slate mutters.

     "What?! What's that, Boss?" queries Snax, deftly tucking a Spleenrot Surfin' Dude(R) magazine under his console.

       "We're now within scanner range of that derelict garbage scow," informs Slate, eyes intent upon the screen in front of him, "only it would seem that IDR control has been misinformed. There are two derelicts out here."

       Snax waddles to the scanning station, peers over Gladius's shoulder.

       "Look here," Gladius says, pointing out the two vessels displayed on the screen. "This one is the Galactic Gathering Company's Dustbin class one point four garbage scow mentioned in our orders, but this other wreck... I have no idea what it is. It almost looks homemade."

       "Oh," Snax replies.

       Gladius turns, becoming stern. "I can only assume, judging from its condition, that it is abandoned. But, due to the rash of Scow Cow hijackings that have been happening, we will be following strict procedural guidelines for our reconnaissance of the two vessels. Do you understand, copilot?"

       Snax stares briefly, blinks once. "Sure, dude."

       Unconvinced, Gladius addresses the bridge console. "Prepare for rendezvous maneuvers."


More at Gone With The Trash

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Beer Run

It was 1976 in south eastern Ontario and my friends, Steve and Greg, and I were entering our senior year at high school.   We were average kids, not the most recognizable or popular, just a nondescript bunch blending in with the general school population.   And like many boys our age, our thoughts revolved around cars, girls and beer. Steve had two older brothers already at university studying engineering, as evidenced by the crude dune buggy parked at the side of his parent's garage, a Volkswagen beetle with the body removed and the chassis shortened by a foot and a half where the rear seats used to be, and in the basement rec room by the home-made strobe light consisting of a wooden box, three feet per side, with a six-inch diameter hole in the front.   Inside was a cardboard disk with a matching hole, an old turntable motor and a light bulb.   It had two speeds:   45 and 78.   It was in this rec room, listening to The Doobie Brothers, Santana and Grand...
Read more

The Creek - Part One

  There is something magical about flowing water.   Every kid should have the privilege of growing up with access to a small stream.   Hours of fascination can be spent exploring cool shallows for minnows and polliwogs, or floating pretend vessels along in the mild current.   As spring turns to summer the tadpoles become frogs, to be caught, examined, and released.   Reports of a mythical, monstrous snapping turtle lurking in the gloom below an overpass adds fear and danger.   As does ice.   When it forms in the winter or crumbles in the spring, the risks of breaking through weak ice elicit dire warnings from protective mothers, even though the stream is still only eight inches deep.   Coming home with a soaker is a dead giveaway that you have survived being through the ice. As I entered adolescence, we moved from the proximity of a small tributary, closer to a much broader and deeper channel of what was known as the creek.   Here, we could...
Read more

The Creek - part two

       Steve held up a baby food jar half-filled with clear liquid.   We were in his father’s garage, preparing for a mid-winter’s evening foray across the creek to the edge of the woods, where we had constructed our first make-shift fort.   He returned the can of camp stove fuel to its place beneath the workbench and assured me we would need this if we had trouble getting our campfire going.   We hadn’t been to the fort in over a week, and it had snowed.   Prudent forethought. The creek behind the neighbourhood of my adolescence was a much different place in winter.   Gone were the insects and birds.   The reptiles and amphibians were hibernating.   The constraints of the canoe were abandoned; everywhere was accessible by foot.   When conditions were right, not too much snow or wind during a decisive drop in temperature, the slack current of the wide channel would freeze to a crystal gloss.   We’d skate and play hockey....
Read more