Space Quest

Space Quest by Stephen Koons

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so the ay. After the vibrant hum of a space motor, the violent landing, a man is relieved to release his safety belt. The stellar push through and among stars, where light seldom shines from a distant sun. Glad to be home, among trash piles albeit. There are men and women happening by the blue and red light districts. They buy Ramen noodles, smoke cigarettes. Women gesture, scantily clad out to passerby’s, soliciting their bodies. Roger Wilco is not so stressed. He has landed, crappily, a space scow, has filled in another workday at a landfill site. He flys overhead, again and again vaporizing garbage. He is a custodian for the business “Clean Sure” , and works every day to maintain cleanliness. He is paid scant wages, deals with the variety of beings, aliens, machines equipped to talk and do mundane things.

A throaty grunt, the sound of plates and glasses jingling, amid strange alien banter. This is the Fosoma diner. Sector 18-X4. Here and there Stranulin’s, Gozamar’s, and Hectoid’s. They eat food delicately, and with force and speed, and with slurping noises.

Roger, without a real family, with one friend : a Meureti. Roger comes here to get a meal when he’s making jaunts among the stars. The Meureti is a tentacled humanoid alien with three limbs and large bulbous eyes. Over his blue and green torso is a slick flesh. He serves meals and works the cash register. Eyeing the line of many customers he feels somewhat overwhelmed. He grins as Roger approaches, “HI there, welcome to the Fosoma diner!” Rather than speaking verbally, he points to a sign with words in American English, and the food falls from a hamper into a bag, Jobleem the Meureti hands Roger the food who wished he could spend more time, but gets to port and back into the space scow.

As Roger makes his exit, he thinks blearily of his future. He had encounters with Sariens in his past, and after a trial of wits and vigor, he saved planet earth. He takes a drink from his 10 day energy bottle, feeling a quick rush after only seconds. The windshield is being scrubbed by his service droid. Bits of debris and greasy discharge are wiped off. After cleaning up, he kicks the warp drive in to gear. In seconds stars blaze into lengthened streaks. Afbag 21, a corporate sector, looks like a busy city in earth with perhaps no floor, only sky-scrapers. Slowing, drawing close to docking bay, after a brief high speed blast, Roger grasps his trash-erizer and rolls up a “Custodian Monthly” magazine, sliding it into his pocket. He takes a quick look at himself in a mirror on his ship, mutton chops, tired eyes, a nylon suit, moving on.

First place, the Macron dome. He slides a keycard in the exterior of his scow, “Clean Sure”, he thinks, and a drivable droid designed for cleaning up after messy children, executives who smoke cigars and leave behind beer cups and bottles. A mop, a classic human tool, is in a closet. It was useful on remote human-inhabited places. He is met by a slender alien with a rotund gastropod head, an official who gets to boss people around in his establishment. Roger swallows a mouth-full, shyly passing by and greeting with a wave.

The alien opens his mouth and giggles, a sign of attention paid. It’s a good thing he didn’t have to do a service check today. Roger’s equipment hadn’t been cleaned in nearly a week. Throughout the near cosmos he had been working, and soon he would have to apply some maintenance.

“Uh for the life of me.” The Stadium is massive, with arcades and paved cause-ways. It was currently closed to the public, and Roger enjoyed the feeling : empty, vacuous, my place for now. There are signs and indications of intelligent life. Earthly sketches of employees and alien alumni are placed on walls. He had been to a number of games himself. The competition of inter-race athletes made things novel. It was after all year 4025. Roger was nearly trumped by the load of mess, peanut shells where earthlings sat. Hectoid recharge machines in sections A-D. So he set about vacuuming between seats, mopping the bathroom floors, and installing some lighting devices on and around sales carts, fan memorabilia stands.

An hour passed by and a Herculean amount of work was completed. The same alien, so thinks Roger, approaches and procures a translation computer from his expensive exo-suit. It reads, “Thank you Roger, and there is a sketch of a smiling custodian. You will be promoted shortly. You may now exit the premises.”

Roger is thrilled. More money, more difficult work? And yet, no complaints. He had known a few in “Clean Sure” who made it up through the rungs, and now he supposed he could afford new clothes, a cell phone…. new friends? As Roger is pushing his cart back to the space Scow, a rumbling sensation begins in the ground. He sees the signs and seats wiggling in place. It looks as if a giant is stamping and parading overhead. It was like an earth-quake, of massive proportions! The alien with the bulbous head is retreating quickly as Roger takes the cock-pit. Nerves frayed, he thinks, “Could this be the Sariens?

The insect head vessel blasts out steam as it engages in landing mode. Yellow and menacing, a beam lurches out and three caped Sarien aliens, demonic frowns and red royal fabric make their way out. They are ensuring dominion in space. They have no scruples, philosophy, just a leadership caste, and a mean will to dominate.

Roger has made an escape for today. He throttles back to earth, New York. A demented viewing screen, Roger is back home in Poughkeepsie New York. There are small gnomes jumping about, climbing trees. Their faces smile garishly as they slap each other and advertise toilet paper. Roger slumps down in bed, in his tight, urban, commonly populated place. The bed is ruffled and unkempt, comfortable. He taps the alarm clock, set to wake him at seven AM.

Dreaming now, there are pterodactyl’s, a smoky sky. He notices with a grin that he has levitated, is perhaps flying with some speed over a mountain range. In the sky he sees close up clouds, feels ecstatic. As the refrigerator hums in his room, and the dimly lit ceiling fan rotates, someone is at the window staring in…..

A creature with four eyes, a dash for a mouth, tentacle arms that goggle and jitter at the window, no noise is made. The strange alien takes a camera out from his trench coat, snaps three shots of Roger, and darts out of view.

While dreaming, Roger sees a clan of fur wearing savages. They are playing slot machines at a casino, of which he has no idea how he arrived there. Still hovering in public. There are business men, teens eating and smoking cigarettes. He sits, inserting earth credits in several machines. Without any effort, he bets 5, the maximum bet, and gives a Buffalo game a spin, the screen displays a fountain of coins and it says “BIG WIN”. Roger is even more ecstatic.

He collects the voucher and inserts in the redemption machine, 200 credits, he knows he is sleeping, is happy to remember family will be coming tomorrow, one more work day, and Miga, Edmond, and Jessa , his cousin, uncle, and aunt.

Being a custodian is hard work sometimes, low paying work, and often thankless. To be out on a cleaning barge though, out in space, getting a view of alien life, going to the Fosoma diner, it all has a classic likability. There will always be strange creatures, cheap food, messy bathrooms, and sometimes his boss will be defensible, quick to volatility. Roger had to think on his toes to placate him, give the appearance of control and obedience.

Hours tick by, and there are more dreams, remembered images and sounds, people from school skateboarding, jumping at the high school track, thrusting and pole-vaulting. He remembers while groaning awake, yesterday he saw Sarien’s? Is that who the invaders were? Getting up from the mattress, he showers and shaves, throws on some work clothes, he exits the apartment building. Reporting for work, walking into the city square, he is up the stairs at a quick gate, and lays a hand on a console, accepted access.

“Wilco, good morning.”

His boss with a tuft of reddish whitish hair grins visibly and points to a chair. Roger sits.

“Good morning Mr. Noony.”

The two enjoy cups of black, potent, coffee.

“We heard a report yesterday that galactic terrorists might seek aliens for enslavement”

“That’s terrible.”

Roger is a bit shaken, then explains how he saw what might have been Sariens, wicked troublesome aliens.

Noony’s smile vanishes. “Really Roger? Next time please call right away. We don’t want any employees killed, hijacked, robbed, or kidnapped. No telling what these serpents could do.”

After talking precautions, Roger heads to his work scow. He leaves the docking bay, making his way again to the Fosoma diner. He orders a breakfast, greasy grits and eggs with a side of turkey bacon. After eating he heads to the bathroom with a mop. A fat scarcely seen alien, which looks like a man injured in a fiery crash enters while Wilco is cleaning. He makes some strange squeaking sounds and enters into a stall. “There are amenities for things like you?”, Roger thinks comically, hmmm you like earth stalls?

After leaving a clean bathroom, Wilco is nearly done cleaning most of the diner. The display screen that Stranulin’s love is showing a ballet with tightly skinned, insect like beings, each about seven feet tall, with branch like appendages. See to the Stranulin’s there is art and love, and the well rounded alien likes both. Entertainment and society should reflect the aesthetics of beauty, and when not stuffing face eating, or crawling through the forests of Meklar 21, Stranulin’s in general watched screens, hooted and danced with each other. Humans were welcome, but seldom were seen with strange Stranulin’s.

Wilco returned to his ship, smiling, and scarcely fearful, even though Sarien’s had recently been spotted.

There is a classic television attached to the wall so as not to block the main view. He pulls the accordian attached device and as the Scow is hurtling through empty space, Roger can see Earth Basketball.

Dry and Hot

There is a planet with sand, dunes, in line to be blasted by a Cargaloo sun. Roger approaches a dome. On the inside are dancing bearded men, rocking a blues tune. There is a clawed cat like bi-ped, with a mean disposition. There are people with tight blue skin at the counter, and a busy looking bar keep, probably just a machine, a droid.

Notes blast out of the speakers, and someone is enjoying pulling a slot machine arm, generally displeased, grumpily inserting credits. A contact message appears on a screen, a rainbow, and LGBTQ, hippies, ravers, Stranulin’s, Hectoid’s, Gozamar’s, this one is for all sentient life! Roger stands, somewhat agape, and then the rainbow text appears, INTERGALACTIC TRUST!

Right, though dad might have been a racist, people and their alien relatives should get along! The men and women in the dome are passively sipping at concoctions sweet and dosed, or were sober, awaiting someone, or were out of tune listening to music. Suddenly a highly drunk midget in a blazer becomes ill by the open side door. The sound of motorcycles revving down, arriving outside the dome calls Roger to attention, awareness.

Above the performing band is a child-like astronomy display, complete with stars, moons, and comets. They are a ridiculous troop of long hair blues-men. The turning display shows off colored lights. The bar tender shouts out something, “Introducing, The Bluesers….” He presses a button and the lights dim, a spotlight appears over the performers, illuminating the galaxy diarama.

Singing like shouting : “And so we hyper-blast, into the beyond. Not a thing to worry about, she’s gonna respond….” So forth.

Roger is finishing drinking a shirley temple. He swirls the ice, and takes the final sip, as a biker gang is added to the miscreant-hovel-of a bar. There is one human with a beard, a scaly Hectoid, and a tentacled Stranulin. The aliens walk with an air of dignity, seeking water and other delicacies.

Leaving the dome where all sorts have come to celebrate or deviate, Roger has found that his Scow is missing. A green homonid with a flaky cape, and a wiry head device is gazing skyward. Roger, being stunned and worried approaches him.

“Glemmlock saw them take your ship! It happened fast.”

Roger fights his nerves, responds with : “Do you know who stole it?”

Immediately Roger procures his galaxy flip phone, contacting his boss.

Though Glemmlock was of little help otherwise, Roger quickly calls the planetary police.

The image on the phone is of a wide faced green toad like officer.

“This is planetary protection.” His voice is a throaty belch, in accord with his toadly

appearance.

Roger files his report, receives advice, and hails a taxi. He is discomfited, hijacked! Low on credits and culpable by his boss, single, destitute, and down one ship….

Roger quickly contacts his boss. He describes the incident, tells the cabby to head for earth, leaning back in the padded interior of the yellow and black ship. The man throttles along, when he turns to face Roger, he is human, no four eyes, never mind that! Roger thinks. Arriving in up-state New York, he hands the cabby the credits owed and finds his apartment.

There are women in scarves, bundled around necks, colorfully dressed youths, and a man who looks like he may be presenting a funeral, in somber colors. The door slides as he moves through the ID check, kiosk.

At home again, in his skanky rather than swanky apartment. He retires into his bed, sleepy but buzzingly distraught. After a restful moment, an alarm overhead sounds. The technical woman’s voice, “Recent Break-in. Keep alert for suspicious individuals.” The drone repeats several times.

Roger activates the surveillance screen. A punk rock Hectoid is holding on to a green crystal, dodging by a police officer, attempting to flee. He is stopped by a taser shot, falls over, as several gems roll away from his semi-conscious body. The police apprehend him. Roger is relieved and resumes his rest. During sleep Roger is in an island paradise.

Sleeping Sweetly

A tight suit wearing trio of women dance by. There is a hammock, island drinks, and a lobster set before Roger. Playing with a mop head, sleeping easy, he sees palm trees, a rich yellow sandy beach. There is a flight parking garage off on the horizon, and he lifts from the hammock, floating. In a sanguine dream he is approaching a Sarien tower. He wants to get away as a feeling of terror grips the nape of his neck. Before the dream can grieve him he slaps his wake-alarm, opens eyes, and nurses shock in his heart.

Awake now, Roger will be assigned another space worthy ship, and he will resume his janitorial work.

Before entering into work, tedium, the like, Roger sees a news clip in which he spots his recently stolen ship! It’s there, his faithful scow, and the human reporter is saying, a biker gang-leader has confessed to theft of a human janitor’s ship. Roger is smiling with glee and another screen in his apartment flashes on with the face of his boss,

Noony is there with a gaping smile, crusty wrinkled skin, and his famous tuft of hair. He says to Roger “They’ve returned the Scow! You won’t have to worry about switching.”

Roger is relieved, and he says , “Thanks”

Noony explains that a man left a strange stink in the cockpit. “The thief was a real trouble maker, and his motorcycle was discovered in the cargo hold.”

“Ok boss, I think I might as well get back to work.”

“We will send an employee there, and of course she’ll have your ship!”

Romance and Justice

Patty La’Blue, worker with the space cleaner company is piloting Roger’s faithful space Scow. Stars in various states of rest appear to throttle around the cock-pit window. She is humming an intrepid space tune, hands on the control deck.

Roger sees the Scow come to a stop and docking in his apartment flight zone. He is dressed, anxious but in general relieved.

Patty is quite a specimen. Blond hair, blue eyes, a compelling hour glass figure. Roger opens his grav-lock door, and enters the main control area, and sits next to Patty. “Hi. I’m Roger. Are you new to the company?”

She looks steely, perhaps aloof, responds, “Yes the boss just commissioned me to bring you to the office.”

“Yea this here ship, my pride and joy.” The two share a wandering gaze, both slowly turning away, though eye contact is still made. “Would you like some…. gum?” Roger treats the pretty young woman to a mint stick.

“Would you like to?”

“Ok” , responds Roger, taking over at the wheel.

Patty gets into the passenger seat.

They discuss how thieves had taken the ship while Wilco visited, on that baking planet of dessert pleasures. A fine scenic space view, the bustling earth beneath, and then the office building. Roger and Patty exit the craft. She had informed him that the business would provide a droid to assist in auto care functions, it would include a basic medical preparation program, and basic navigation, and anti theft and hacking abilities.

Patty is there looking attractive putting forth a hand, expressively. She and Roger head to the fifth floor suite, and Noony is standing there with a paper cone of cold water.

“Good morning.” He salutes the pair.

“We are here.” Simple and to the point. The three discuss things space, Hectoids and humans. Sports, the fears that are generated by the Sariens, invasions, and other topics under a Cargaloo sun. Noony says, “Today things should be back to normal. We are having you do the rounds at…”

As the end of his sentence finds a void of silence, and a general feeling of terror overwhelms the three custodial scientists, a loud electronic pop rings out, and a fierce, demonic green alien has taken the transmission on the digital screen.

“Good morning earthlings.” The voice is slurring, sharp grainy and frightening. “Your planet will soon be mine.”