The Space Whiskey Death Chronicles Read online

  Back inside that high-tech Lego base, the computer’s big dopey face again.

  And reminders, reminders, reminders. Useless. Unnecessary. Alex couldn’t really remember anything anymore, not since the start of the trip, and soon, it wouldn’t matter.

  Fifteen percent remaining.

  Alex checked the tanks on the others. A dozen, all empty. For fun, Alex took one of the bodies and hurled it at the floating, constructed stacks of families and workers.

  They scattered and collided and bounced and caterwauled.

  Looney Tunes suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea.

  The big holographic screen in what was once the communal room bloomed to life. Wile E. Coyote was calling Acme for Rube Goldbergian tools of insanity. The Road Runner was fleeing, fleeing, forever just out of reach.

  Before all this, Alex had read much and often. Read, in fact, as far back as the initial reports about potential colonies within the Sol system. The twenty-first and twenty-second centuries were exciting times, if the stories were true. At least as far as possibilities were concerned.

  After Base Luna, where could they go? Wherever there was water – essential to a longtime base. And from water was culled oxygen. Humanity went to the ice on Mars, after leap frogging from Luna where less gravity meant less fuel consumption and an easier lift off. And they went to the ice on Jupiter’s Europa after leap-frogging from Mars.

  Then the money ran out. For a while, it was enough to explore. Feeling that uniquely American pioneering spirit which probably really started, Alex ruminated, when a Kansas farm boy discovered Pluto. The colonies weren’t huge, but they were marks of human accomplishment. As for what the corporations sought, human achievement meant little compared to the bottom line.

  And the bottom line was paramount, considering it was private ventures and private money that took people to the stars now.

  Everything on the Moon was worth something. The silicon, the iron, the magnesium: all potential dollar signs. The problem was balancing the cost of excavation against profit. No small task. Hundreds of billions spent on the base, the men, the tools. With the increasingly deteriorating state of the Earth, most companies wound up with a profit hovering around fifteen to twenty billion. That profit went down as the cost went up with the Martian base. And again on Europa.

  Barely worth it. Just scraping by.

  “Boon to the human spirit.”

  “Thrill of adventure.”

  Et cetera. That’s what the ads said.

  But then, bang. Something changed. A new president. A new Congress. A sudden sense of hope.

  Though that hope was a trademark and a lie, as slogans generally are.

  “Let’s go farther. Let’s see what’s really out there.”

  That was new. That in and of itself was a PR campaign unrivaled.

  Of course, the real reason for exploration was money. Desperation.

  They went. With the human race behind them. Begging. Find something. Find anything worthwhile. Worth the trip. Worth the effort. Worth the money.

  Alex’s father bought in.

  He was a blue-collar man who knew the dangers of mining after twenty years on the job inside our own blue marble. He went after the task anyway. A worker. Not a simple man – there is no such thing – but a man who would drag himself and his family through hell to get done what needed getting done.

  And they needed this chance, the family knew, to turn things around for themselves.

  The precious thing that they and a dozen others were sent out after was in fact an old, familiar alkali metal that Earth had run out of: Lithium for the battery-powered human race.

  There was a problem with it, though. Rarity. That third element, vital now to tech, was stunningly difficult to find. Due to its instability, it didn’t form naturally. Those three protons and four neutrons didn’t like getting together as well as the particles of hydrogen or carbon or iron do. It was formed in low numbers with the Big Bang, but since it reacted so violently with other elements, it was a true bastard to find. In the vacuum, spallation created it – an uncommon process where heavier elements were split into lighter ones by cosmic rays.

  Hell of a thing. And a monster goose chase.

  Unless you can find a source closer to home.

  In the Kuiper Belt, say.

  There were deposits, they believed, in that rocky black space beyond the swirling storms of Neptune. Carve it out of the asteroids. Mine it. Be a hero for the folks back home. Lead an exciting new life.

  That was what Alex’s father had been told.

  And the compensation was, well, irresistible.

  Especially for them, who seemed to have a never-ending run of bad luck financially.

  What the company needed was families. Units who knew and loved one another. It kept the order. Groups without connections tended to go south. Workers flying solo never panned out, though it temporarily created an interesting market for sociopaths.

  Alex’s family moved from the coalfields near Pittsburgh. Where the stars shone if you looked hard enough. Then they moved a few hours east to Riegelsville. Where the stars always seemed to find you. Then the moved a few decades into the Kuiper Belt. Where there was nothing but stars – stars that never twinkled, but stared.

  The trip out was just a foggy blur. Cramped. Uncomfortable. People snapped into a long, white casket pushed forward by impulse magnetoplasma rockets. Cold surroundings after the curled warmth of hibernation. Dreams becoming false memories that seemed true because they were more real than the years of nothingness in transit.

  There was a life before this, under Sol’s yellow sun. Seconds and minutes and hours and days and months and years that were all well-defined. A hard life, but a life. Time with friends, time studying and time working.

  Out here, nothing.

  What precisely had happened after they arrived?

  There was a sense of newness, yes. A sense of exploration, as had been promised. But what else? Work. Time tables. Arguments. Problems with the machinery. Systems going to hell. Failing. Ice to water. Water to drink. Water to oxygen. Oxygen to breathe.

  And then something. Something terrible. Some horrible source of…

  Nausea first – they thought it had been caused by the trip. Diarrhea, headache, fever. Still could have been the trip. The cryosleep.

  Then, problems with their central nervous system. Twitches. Little seizures.

  Radiation.

  Alex’s gloved fingers suddenly snapped. Memories crept up at last.

  Madness. All that screaming. The panic.

  The radiation in the ice. Poison jumping from the freeze to the water and then the oxygen. What they drank and what they breathed. Doom for the family and everyone else on this forsaken rock.

  Snap snap snap went Alex’s tremors.

  Five percent.

  Good old Wile E. chased the Road Runner off a dark brown cliff against a bright blue sky with puffy white clouds that Alex vaguely remembered from his former life.

  Four percent.

  Gravity patiently waited for him to realize this before dragging his body down.

  Three percent.

  One final nagging thought rumbling around inside the helmet.

  Two percent.

  Why had Alex killed everyone?

  One percent.

  That’s all folks.

  I: Vox Organum

  “That shit will kill you,” his appendix said.

  John felt his ass nod and a fart of agreement filled the air.

  Up until that point, it had been a regular Thursday. He had woken up, fixed himself some coffee in the stained second-hand maker he’d bought from a Salvation Army store, taken a strained but pleasing shit, then began the obsessive-compulsive task of searching the old empty house for something to clean.

  John did not have a lot to do these days.

  Before his girl had died and his children had moved out of their Brooklyn home, he had had a place and a purpose. He had taken care of t
hem. He had worked hard at the industrial plant. He had earned his retirement.

  Now he was just running down the clock.

  Every day, Monday through Friday, he cleaned and cleaned and cleaned – even when there wasn’t a spot of dust to be found. Afterwards, he read. Sometimes he started to think about writing the book he was sure he had in him. Then a malaise would take hold, and he’d get back to doing nothing in particular.

  If he was feeling adventurous, he might venture to the grocery store. But that was generally reserved for the weekend.

  John – as his now grown and moved-out children hundreds of miles away gently chided him for being when they could be bothered to call – was a shut-in.

  Every day was the same. Every day was its own kind of lonely. Mondays were particularly oppressive because he had fond memories of the work week starting. Fridays were the second-worst because he had similarly fond memories of the excitement of the coming-weekend. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays were just … well, the demarcations didn’t really serve a purpose.

  Much like the appendix which was apparently talking to him.

  “Sorry?” John said to no one in particular – he apologized out of habit when he thought he’d heard or misheard something.

  “That shit will kill you,” a voice said. “And by you, I mean all of us.”

  John felt his ass nod in agreement and release a quiet hiss of gas that had been building in his intestines since the beginning of the meal. He looked down at his dinner. It was nothing terribly dangerous as far as he could tell. A steak – cooked rare – sat next to a baked potato with some sour cream and a mound of buttery zucchini. He hadn’t arranged the meal in any pretty position, but it looked pleasant enough on his plain white plate. He even liked the way the bit of blood pooled around the meat and sat in stark red contrast to the ceramic dish.

  “The red meat, the sour cream, the piss butter leaking from your meager greens – none of that is good for your ticker, and if it isn’t good for your ticker, it isn’t good for your body. But you’ve been doing this for years – I wish you had treated us better,” the voice explained. “And the booze, don’t get me started on the booze.”

  John turned to look behind him into the living room. The thick mahogany front door he had installed ages ago stood firm. No shapes appeared in the twin windows of its frame. The sparsely decorated living room was vacant as far as he could tell. The brown Amber Valley oak flooring – which he had also installed himself – that led to his kitchen was free of footprints.

  It was his conscience, perhaps.

  A little voice in his head warning him to get healthy.

  Years of solitude finally sending him over the edge into oblivion.

  “Your brain isn’t entirely yours, you know,” the voice said. “We all talk. Well, most of us talk. Not all the time, mind you. We do enjoy the dirty filthy thoughts that run through your head when the postal woman brings you mail, but … anyway. No, you aren’t crazy. I am talking to you. You’re hearing my real, actual voice,” it said.

  “I’m hearing the really real, actual voice of whom?” John asked.

  “Your appendix.”

  “Ah, well, that explains it.”

  John stood up, stuffed the last, most bloody chunk of meat into his mouth, and scraped the rest of his food into the garbage. He had lost his appetite.

  Which made no sense, of course. He had been greatly looking forward to the potato and the zucchini especially. One of the small pleasures in his small life was to think up delicious dinners for himself. He sighed at the waste of a meal.

  “Mr. Stomach, I presume, made that decision,” John said aloud.

  “No. I wanted it, too. He made me do it,” said Stomach.

  “Shut up,” snapped Appendix.

  Government gassed me with drugs, John thought to himself. When I was in one of those horrible South American countries dirtying myself for Uncle Sam – they gassed me with some weird chemical agent or something.

  “Nah.”

  “OK, now who was that?” John asked.

  “Me!”

  “Me who? Identify yourself, please.”

  “Head-Me! Uh, or you. Brain!”

  John thought instead of speaking: Is it just you and me in here, or is it a group thing?

  Just you and me at the moment. Do you want me to get the guys?

  No, no, I really don’t.

  Mmmmmkay then. I won’t. Erm, you sure? You want me to keep this secret or something?

  For a brain, you’re incredibly stupid, John thought.

  No, I’m not, Brain retorted.

  Yes, you are.

  No, I’m not.

  Shut up. Let’s keep this between you and me, OK?

  Like a super cool club?

  Yes. Just like a super cool club. We can call it the Brain Club, John thought.

  Cool! Brain chortled.

  Yeah.

  But how do we know which you is me?

  No idea. This is all new to me, too.

  Hmmmmmm. How about this?

  Oh, yes. That works quite nicely.

  It does, doesn’t it?

  Yes. Yes it does.

  That’s why I’m the brains of this operation … get it?!

  John stopped actively thinking and moved from the kitchen to the living room. He fell into the couch’s soft old cushions as quickly as his arthritic knees would allow him. He stuck a finger into an old cigarette burn that had given the otherwise-beige upholstery a kind of crusty zit. His feet found the foot stool put there for this very purpose. He picked up the remote and turned on the television. Nothing shuts off the thought center as quickly as television.

  Holy shit, I love TV!

  “I bet you do,” John said.

  “You bet I do what?” Appendix asked.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  John reached over and yanked on the cord to the stained-glass sitting lamp he had adored for years. More light might snap him out of whatever this was. He did his best to keep that thought from Brain.

  The light didn’t stop the voices. John took a shot of Jack Daniels and lit up his forty-year relationship with Lucky Strikes unfiltered. Smoke wafted in the void between his feet and the television.

  He passed out after being assaulted into unconsciousness by hour upon hour of bad, horrible, no good television and a solid influx of booze. Liver went along for the party. Brain convinced Eyes to stay up and watch the Girls Gone Wild commercials between shows on Comedy Central.

  II. Et tu, Penis?

  John woke up needing, more than anything, to pee.

  He rolled swiftly off the couch, noticed that the television was still on, ignored it, and made a beeline for the bathroom. He went tumbling over the foot stool that had helped him sleep the night before and cursed his aching joints a second later.

  They said nothing.

  Not bothering to close the bathroom door – living alone had degraded certain aspects of politeness – John unzipped his pants and waited for the flow of relief.

  “Listen, pal,” he heard, “Brain spent all night watching almost-porn and you-you had some entertaining ideas all his own. You better think of baseball or something before I spew anything out.”

  John threw his upper head back and pleaded with the ceiling.

  “Oh, god, this still. I thought it was a bad dream or it might be over, or maybe I was just completely insane,” he said out loud.

  “No, we’re all awake now. And if you don’t convince Brain or whatever erogenous zones you’ve managed to retain that there is absolutely no reason for me to be rock solid right now, Bladder is going to quite literally explode. And that is going to hurt.

  “A lot,” Penis said.

  “BRAIN!” John shouted. “Think of the fighting in South America. Remember the blood? Remember the people on the battlefield?”

  “I don’t wanna,” chirped Brain indignantly. “That sucked.”

  “Of course it did. But if you
don’t stop us from thinking about the mail woman and the titties on TV then our friend Bladder is going to pop and that is going to kill us. Do you understand me? That’s going to kill us!”

  Brain said nothing. John’s Johnson was still carved from stone.

  “OK, OK,” John said trying to outwit his own brain, “Remember Matsui in the World Series? Remember when he hit that fuckin’ two-run homer? How unbelievable was that?”

  “Ooooh, that was awesome!” Brain said.

  A film of game 6 of the World Series between the Yankees and the Phillies began to play back inside John’s head. Images of the plays and the outs and Yankee Stadium flooded his cerebral cortex. An entirely different kind of excitement filled John’s body. Sex was nowhere to be found.

  The sound of water splashing entered John’s ears.

  Victory.

  “Wasn’t Kate Hudson there?” Brain asked. “She was dating Alex Rodriguez. Cute girl.”

  “Oh, shit,” Penis said.

  “No, no, almost empty,” Bladder shouted.

  John sighed as the drips fell into the toilet.

  He had difficulty tucking himself in, but managed to shake off and walk back into the living room with only a minor tenting in his pants.

  The doorbell rang.

  It was the fabled postal woman, right on time.

  “Weeeeeeeeeeeee!” Brain screamed cerebrally.

  “Look, seriously, I’m tired,” Penis said.

  “Then keep … uh, yourself shut,” John said as he walked towards the door. He turned the brass handle and there before him stood the most gorgeous woman in his meager existence. He forced an awkward smile as he held his hand out to receive whatever undoubtedly useless parcels were there.

  Truth told, the mail woman wasn’t actually attractive. She had olive skin – maybe Brazilian or dark Italian, but pockmarks from pimples burst left her looking a bit like a street that nobody had bothered to fill the potholes in on. Her figure was largely uncared for. She had round hips, which were a plus, but flesh hung over the band of her pants in a strange muffin top fashion and above that she was more or less a thick pencil. The impression left was immediately that of a stretched sausage that had had a rubber band wrapped around it for some enormous amount of time.