;
So there I was. Stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the clothes on my back, $37 in loose change, 12 cigarettes, and half a taquito I got from the gas station congealing at the bottom of my backpack. It wasn’t much, but I’ve done more with less in the past.
I should have listened to GAIL’s advice and brought a towel, but I hadn’t expected to be gone this long. Just a quick romp out and back—money in the bank and maps in hand—done, and done.
But no, as per unusual, the ship was locked down and taken over by Xiragiyan terrorists and thrown off course when they decided to hijack it and hitch a ride back to the “safety” of the sulfur mines of Hoggarth. And we the passengers got dumped out along the way. Godsdamned Xiragiyans. No respect for other species.
I’m Jack Haagenz. I map spatial anomalies. It’s a great job with travel benefits and a good dental plan, but sometimes, times like these, for example, you gotta wonder what it’s all really worth.
Maybe I should begin somewhere before now, so you’ll have the benefit of catching up to me before I’ve gone too far.
I was born to two parents; one male, one female—both human (mom was still around, but my father passed away before my 10th birthday).
I had a childhood.
I went through puberty. Twice (but the second time was accidental and work-related, so it may not—technically—count).
I went to college and double-majored in astronomy and cartography (yes, you can still major in cartography at certain schools, thank you very much).
A man with two sets of eyes (four total, double-stacked up his forehead) offered me this job at graduation.
He walked up to me after the ceremony, grinning like a shark introducing himself to chum and wearing aviator sunglasses ripped straight out of 1986. He handed me his card and said “We’ve got a job for you. We like your style, and we want you on the team. What do you say?”
The card read “Ghoeti McSweeney, Lunar Ley Line Lienholder.” He explained that his name is actually pronounced “Fish” (seriously, it is -- look it up).
I didn’t know what to think, at first, and several thoughts ran through my head. Not the least of which was that my studies consisted of not-very-marketable skills and I had spent more time wondering where I’d find a job than I liked to share with friends and family. I’d been lying to my mom for months saying that I’d been sending out resumes and hitting up the career-center at my school for advice, but the reality was my resume was woefully thin and the career-advisors at my school had given up after insisting my only options were grad school (which I couldn’t afford) or to move back home and take an unpaid internship at a local observatory and kiss the director’s ass in the hopes of getting paid for it.
Ghoeti politely stood by while my internal debate raged on, an expectant half-smile on his lips, and when I saw my mom pushing her way through the crowds with a big smile on her face, I knew I couldn’t disappoint her so I told him “All right, I’m your man. When do I start?”
“Great to hear it!” He said as he clapped me on the shoulder. “Take a couple of weeks to yourself, graduation and all, I know how it goes, and then gimme a ring and we’ll set you up in the office.”
I shook his hand and he ducked away into the crowd just as my mom arrived and asked who he was. I said he had just offered me a job, something that I could really put my major to use on, and she was so thrilled she immediately started peppering me with questions that I still didn’t have answers to; so I said it was a government job that I couldn’t really talk about.
Thirteen days later I called the number on the card and started my new job.
I saw most of the known galaxy, discovered some unknown parts, bought a condo, tried to get married (she broke off the engagement when she found out I wasn’t kidding about ”what I did for a living”), got promoted, and was a year away from retirement eligibility (humans qualified for early retirement because our extremely fragile physiology lends itself to a rather short life-expectancy) when I got the call from Fish at 5 p.m. PST Earth-Time. I picked up my cellphone in my home in Portland and recognized the caller ID right away.
“S’up, Fish?”
“Jack, my old friend! Have I got a deal for you!” he said. I had come to accept his way of talking like a used-car salesman because we had become very close over the years, having survived quite a bit together. For some reason his concept of Earth-speak was rather hyperbolic. But once you get to know him, you realize he’s honest and sincere, despite how he sounds.
“What’cha got? Haven’t heard from you in a while—I was just about to call the office and ask about work. You know I’m no longer on vacation, right?” I had been ordered by my boss, Wally, to take a month long vacation since I hadn’t taken one in 15 years, and he was tired of just giving me a huge cash bonus every year for my time. The way I figured it, every day was a vacation since I was traveling to new and exotic locales across time and space, but the Loquati didn’t see things my way and Wally demanded I take some time away from the office.
“I’ve got a real quick and easy job for you,” said Fish. “You’ll love it—out and in, you’ll be home for the weekend. Well, your weekend, anyway.”
“Sounds great! I’ve been wanting to get back out into the lanes for a while. What’s the assignment?”
“A charm quark hit a cluster of up-downs inside of a black hole over by Laila and the mass forming could be a new planet, a dual-core black hole, or a Ding-Dong the size of Japan. We need you to go check it out and, if necessary, realign the hyperspace lanes around it. We’ll have transport lined up tomorrow morning, 9 a.m. your time – I take it you still have your Box,” he asked.
“The Box” was a multidimensional transponder that allowed the office to find and pick me up as well as shuttle me around the galaxy, or simply drop me off at the bus stop. All of us space-jockeys depended on the Box so much, and they are of advanced enough technology and artificial intelligence, that they start developing personalities the longer you have one. I called mine Kal, and we got along great.
“Sure thing! Just unplugged Kal last night, in fact, so we’re all ready to go. What am I gonna need to take with me on this one?”
“Not much, my man, just a day-pack with the bare essentials. Since you’ll be flowing straight toward a black hole, we don’t want to risk it sucking you in so the less mass you have the better.”
“Got it. I’ll get geared up tonight and be ready for the Wash tomorrow. Where am I catching it?”
“We’ve redirected it enough that you won’t have to hardly leave your front yard. Just be at the corner of South Lake Shore Drive and East Balbo Ave, right by the fountain. You can’t miss it.”
I pulled up a map on my computer while we talked and searched for the intersection.
“Fish, man, there’s no Lake Shore Drive or Balbo Avenue in Portland. The closest I can find is Lake Shore Way down in Lake Oswego.”
“No, no, no, old buddy man, I mean in Chicago.”
“CHICAGO!? What the hell, man? Do you have any idea how far away Chicago is from Portland?”
After a long pause, he said, “No. Is it far? According to our system….” I heard the clicking of buttons in the background as he looked it up. “It’s only about 2,100 miles—just slipstream there on an ether line. You’ll be there in, what, 20 minutes?”
“You jackass! We don’t have ether lines on Earth! Godsdammit, I’ve gotta go catch a plane. Tonight!” I threw the phone down in disgust, not bothering to hang up on him. From my couch cushions, I could still hear him talking.
“You don’t have ether lines on Earth yet? Oh grognar! I forgot you people still use combustion engines down there…. Hell, I can try to redirect the Wash your way... Hello? Hello? You still there, Jack?”
I ignored him as I grabbed an overnight bag and shoved a couple pairs of underwear, socks, t-shirts, spare pair of cargo pants (with the legs that unzip and become shorts) and a jockstrap (hey, you never know) into the main pouch, then my bathroom bag and Kal into a side-pocket. I wasn’t worried about taking a flight with a small hydrodynamic thermonuclear reactor in my carry-on since it would be in sleep mode, and the TSA jackasses wouldn’t know what the hell it was anyway. When I heard silence from the couch, I went over and grabbed my phone and left for the airport.
In the taxi on the way, I texted Fish “I’m putting in for extra travel expenses on this one, and they’d better be approved or I’m going to get a wild Trasarp to skull fuck all four of your eye-sockets!”
I was kidding, of course…
I could never get a wild Trasarp through customs. But it’s the thought that counts.