James and his two best friends, Cain and Ian, Tucumcari locals with a penchant for relieving tourists of their money with a sleeper of a hot-rod van find themselves backed into a corner after the rescue of an ex-girlfriend from her dealers crash pad goes wrong. With the police and the local Air Force looking for them and a curious piece of technology they liberated, they find themselves left with nowhere to go but… up. Presented with the opportunity to start a new life on an alien world, they use everything they learned growing up in the worst of situations to make the best of their new one.
James and his two best friends, Cain and Ian, Tucumcari locals with a penchant for relieving tourists of their money with a sleeper of a hot-rod van find themselves backed into a corner after the rescue of an ex-girlfriend from her dealers crash pad goes wrong. With the police and the local Air Force looking for them and a curious piece of technology they liberated, they find themselves left with nowhere to go but… up. Presented with the opportunity to start a new life on an alien world, they use everything they learned growing up in the worst of situations to make the best of their new one.
Chapter One
“Where does a 383 like to idle again?” James slowly twisted his screwdriver clockwise as he listened to the old motor change tone towards a smoother frequency.
“Somewhere between seven and eight hundred”, came the reply from the back of the shop. “Don't forget to check the mix while you’re at it. Last thing I need is you wasting more of my Varsol cleaning shit out of those heads that YOU put there!”
“Don’t worry about it Uncle Ted”, James fired back, “I’ll grab you another jug when I come back tomorrow.” He smiled to himself,and moved the screwdriver to the mixture adjust screw and turned it clockwise as well to lean out the fuel supply. The motor fell into a harmonic balance of a low baritone rumble as James pulled himself out from under the dashboard of the van and stuck his head outside the side door to catch a whiff of the exhaust. “Still a bit rich”, he thought to himself. He reached back under the dashboard and tweaked the mixture screw just a bit more, then slid back out to check the exhaust smell one last time. Satisfied with the lack of unburned fuel in the air, he rested his hand on the doorframe and felt the vibrations. The number seven hundred twenty five materialized in his mind, and when he glanced at the dashboard, he saw the tachometer needle slowly bouncing just under the “1” on the gauge. “Close enough”, he decided, and reached around the steering wheel, twisting the key and killing the power.
The 1977 Dodge B100 wasn’t born with a 383, nor was it designed for the kind of brutality that had been levied upon it since James had set his eyes on its retired and picked clean frame more than three years earlier, just after his sixteenth birthday. It had been his first ticket to freedom after leaving the foster “parents” he had grown up with, as Ted had offered the van and all the parts James could scrounge in return for help around the shop. Once it had become roadworthy, it began pulling double duty as both transportation and a home. Ted had initially offered to put James up in his trailer behind the shop, but considering the latent stench of cheap whiskey and stale cigarette smoke, and the innate lack of privacy afforded by a single axle travel trailer, the van proved a much more enticing alternative. It was his first apartment, first job, and first opportunity to make a name for himself.
He had finished the inside in deep red shag carpet, built in cabinets with a small fridge, on top of which sat a small two burner propane stove, a raised platform in the rear that held a small mattress, and a pair of swiveling captain's chairs finished in the finest vinyl Detroit had ever produced. The much larger than stock block under the hood had previously done time under the hood of a New Mexico State Trooper squad car, but James had carefully rebuilt the engine from the bottom to the top and it showed. The last time he had it on the Dyno, it pulled 462 horsepower, and he was positive it would crack 500 with his latest additions. Since nobody typically expected an old school Boogie Van to be packing that kind of heat, James had been able to make a pretty solid living taking Route 66 hot-rod tourists to the cleaners in late night street races. The paint, however, hadn’t been touched. A relic left over from the custom van craze of the early 1980s, it spoke to him on a personal level. A midnight blue base coat gave way to a mural of a full moon in the night sky on the back panel, while the menacing silhouette of a B24 Liberator bomber depicted side-on cruised just below it. He hadn’t touched it for that very reason: it had earned the name.
“Holy shit! Are you finally finished playing with yourself over there?” Ted bellowed from under the Honda Odyssey he had been working on. “Make yourself at least somewhat useful and pass me that pry bar so I can get this starter out… piece of metric Jap shit!” A shrill, rapid clanging filled the shop as he beat the living hell out of his own socket with a ratchet, in a hopeless attempt to dislodge it from the nut he had stripped moments before.
James slid the pry bar under the minivan. “Here. Don’t hurt yourself man. I don’t have enough gas to take you to the cardiac unit and get myself to the bar later, and I don’t want to have to choose between you and a beer.”
“Oh go fuck yourself, you self righteous retard!” Ted shouted, laughing. “I’ll still be here turning wrenches long after you give up ‘cause you broke a nail or got a run in yer stockings. If you ain’t gonna be useful, then go on and play hide the weenie with your friends in your rolling crab factory over there, or whatever you faggots do.”
James chuckled to himself. Ted had been the only thing close to a father figure he had ever known, but was unapologetically his own man. Never one to back down from a fight, hard working and self sufficient, he was the definition of blue collar. He spoke his mind whether or not those in the room had any interest in hearing it, but when it came down to what really mattered, he was a reliable fixture in James’ life. Even though he could be as abrasive as sandpaper at times, he always ended up on the more moral side of the issue, belying his right of center, redneck smokescreen.
“Yeah, I’ll tell Cain you were talking about how deep his eyes looked last time you saw him and how you can’t stop checking out his package.” James ducked as the finally freed socket sailed past his head, bouncing off the wall behind him before clanging to rest somewhere behind the rollaway chest against the wall, never to be seen again. He got the message, and headed over to his van, closing the doors and replacing the engine cover inside before checking the floor for any leftover tools. Just as he reached for the driver's door, he heard the opening riff from “I Hate” by Overkill as his phone rang from inside on the seat. He picked it up to see Cain’s face on the screen, and answered.
“What’s up, scumbag?”
“Dude, where are you right now?” Cain sounded agitated.
“Just finished putting that new carb on the van over at Uncle Ted’s, where are you? What's eating ya man? You sound a little pissed…”
“It’s Tamara. She went back to his place again dude. We gotta get her out.”
“Fucking seriously?” James was not happy. This would be the third time he had been involved in the drama storm that was Cain's ex. Even though they no longer saw each other as in any way compatible anymore, he couldn’t just look the other way and let her get beaten by the jackass she had been scoring her shit from, again.
“Yeah man. I saw her passed out in the back of his car. I don’t think she had a choice.”
“Alright man, I’m coming. You at the Caravan?”
“Yeah. Ian’s here too. We’ll be at the front of the lot when you get here. Put the hammer down man, I don’t wanna let this go too long.”
“Got it. On my way.” James pocketed his phone and jumped into the driver's seat of the van, started the engine and threw it into gear just as Ted came trotting up to the window.
“That sounded serious - you boys alright?” he asked, poking his head through the window.
“No man, we gotta go get Tamara again. Seth grabbed her from the bar a couple of minutes ago. Cain and Ian are waiting for me.”
“Well shit… hang on one second - I got something for ya.” Ted ran off to the tool cabinet and pulled a rolled up rag from the bottom drawer. He ran back to the window and tossed the package on to the passenger seat.
“What the hell is that?” James wasn’t really sure he wanted to know.
“I call it my Motor City Persuader - Just in case that asshole doesn’t feel like being nice.”
“Alright - whatever man, I gotta go!” James floored the accelerator and lit up the tires as the van lurched sideways out of the shop and on to the highway, leaving Ted in a cloud of acrid smoke.
The bar was just off the highway at the edge of town, less than five minutes from Teds place. James corrected slightly as the van shifted into third gear and broke the tires loose again. Tucumcari was a town in limbo, stuck somewhere between the neon heyday of Route 66 with its kitschy themed motels and automotive museums, and a tired, oversold tourist trap loaded with reproduced Native American trinkets and the new age hippies that flocked to them like fruit flies. As he slid the van around the Route 66 monument, James shook his head at the installation, well aware of the stark contrast between the veneer of PG nostalgia the art piece represented and the sobering reality of meth, racism, corruption and class struggle he had grown up with. He pinned the throttle again and wrestled the hulking Dodge down the main drag, the Caravan Xpress Grill coming into view on his right. Cain and Ian jogged out from under the awning to meet him next to the sign at the entrance.
Cain swung the passenger door open and jumped in as the van coasted by. “Fuckin’ GO!”
Ian had meanwhile popped the side door and jumped in on the run, splaying himself on the floor as the door swung shut behind him. James dropped the hammer again and drifted out of the parking lot sideways, carefully feathering the pedal until the van shuddered with traction and lurched forward down the drag.
Cain was an imposing figure, standing six-foot-four with a build refined by years of hard work in various day labor gigs tempered by month-long hunting trips in the woods around Dulce, his hometown. He had met James when they were thirteen, and they had both relied on each other innumerable times as life handed them each raw deal after raw deal. The long braid he wore had followed him from his youth, though now as an expression of non-conformity more than Apache culture. Camouflage cargo pants over combat boots and a black, sleeveless Circle Jerks shirt completed the image that Cain used to obscure his selfless, empathetic nature that always seemed to get taken advantage of.
Ian was a different kind of animal. Born into privilege, he had grown up with all of the material possessions one could ever want, but none of the love or respect a person needs to grow. Slightly shorter and more lithe than Cain, he presented a quieter and more introspective facade, usually getting wrapped up in whatever tight spot the other two occupied as a consequence of simply being with them at the wrong time, rather than playing an active role. He was the most academic of the trio, having been the only one of them to have completed high school, but like them, he had made his own way through most of his childhood, and identified with them as family more than he did his own. He also brought to the table an amazingly honed sense of humor, able to pick up on the smallest detail in a conversation and spin it into hilarity, a result of the years spent edging blame and criticism as a child.
“What the hell am I sitting on?” Cain arched up from his seat, reaching behind himself to dislodge Uncle Ted's gift from the seat. He pulled the oily rag wrapped object onto his lap and sat back down, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow in James’ direction.
“Uncle Ted says Merry Christmas, and he hopes you have fun with his toy” James responded, smiling wryly. “For real though, I have no idea. He said it might come in handy tonight. Open it up.”
Cain turned his gaze to the bundle in his lap as he pulled the rags open, revealing a sawed off Mossberg twelve gauge shotgun with a pistol grip. Uncle Ted had indeed delivered. “Is this thing for real?” he wondered out loud, turning the weapon over in his hands.
The realization of what was at stake that night washed over James as he caught Cain's bewildered gaze. “I guess he knew what we were in for. That old asshole continues to surprise me every time!” He lifted off the gas, swung the wheel hard right and put the pedal right back on the floor as they approached the next turn, correcting as the back tires broke loose and began to slide. “Make sure you keep the safety on til we get there…”
“Just like a computer, right? I just point and click?” Cain chided, as he racked the slide, loading a shell into the receiver. Which end do the bullets come out of again?” He chuckled at James’ sly grin and Ian’s startled expression. He was no stranger to firearms, having grown up in Dulce hunting and fishing from the time he was able to lift a rifle.
“Just keep it under wraps unless we actually need it man. I’d rather not have to deal with the cops too - this asshole is going to be enough of a headache as it is.” James wrenched the wheel through the last turn onto the suburban street where Seth lived. He swore to himself this would be the last time they bailed Tamara out, but he also knew she wasn’t blameless in all of this. She and Cain had been on again and off again more times than he could count, but every time it seemed she had a way of luring him back to her side with promises of getting clean and finally getting her shit together, but that fairy tale never materialized, and Cain, ever the optimist when it came to people close to him, fell for it every time. Something seemed different this time though. As James looked across at his friend, he noticed a kind of resignation in his eyes that hadn’t been there all those times before. He wasn’t saving his ex from an abusive asshole again. He was doing a last favor and tying up a loose end that he had finally outgrown.
“Alright, keep it down and see if we can get a read on what’s happening before we get stupid” James cautioned as he coasted the van to a stop a couple of houses short of Seths property. He killed the ignition and lights as Cain and Ian quietly hopped out onto the curb and started making their way through the neighbors yard toward the side of the house. James followed crouching as he went, keeping an eye on the windows for any kind of movement.
The house Seth rented was barely worthy of the term anymore, having been used as a point of sale for methamphetamines and heroin during the evening hours and a crash pad for the more serious imbibers of said substances during the day. Whatever vegetation or rock garden had graced the front of the property years before when it had first gone on the market had given way long ago to the desert floor it had been built upon. Piles of garbage and forgotten clothing lay against the sides of the aging structure, while the slowly peeling paint and delaminating wood accents along the roofline complimented the cracked peach stucco walls to create a dystopian take on a Norman Rockwell vision of Americana.
Through the window, James could see Seth, who matched his surroundings as if camouflaged by them. He was thin and wiry, his skin pasty white in contrast veneer of dirt and grease that colored the stretched and torn tank top he wore under an equally distressed maroon tracksuit, embossed with the flaking remnants of trucker girl silhouettes sitting back to back in a stripe down the legs and arms. His train of thought long ago derailed, he spent any time he wasn’t high searching for anything he could sell in order to get his next hit, and failing that he was no stranger to taking it from whoever happened to be near if the opportunity presented itself.
He was pacing around the front room of the house, waiting for Tamara to regain consciousness so that he could once again make her see how important it was that she give him her rent money, so he could get enough crank to be able to sell most of it and make enough money back to be able to get level, pay her back in time for the first of the month, and get his rent paid so he didn’t get his ass beat by the landlord again. Maybe she knew someone who wanted the tablet he scored from that business guy at the gas station who wasn’t paying attention? Why the fuck was she sleeping? Oh, right...
Cain slipped up under the window on the front of the house and carefully peeked over the ledge before coming back around the side. “They are both in the front room”, he whispered. “She’s on the couch curled up and fucko is pacing around like a caged dog. If we get the jump on him he won’t know what hit him and we can get out before he comes around.”
“What if he’s packing?” Ian asked, visibly nervous but committed. “I don’t work too well, all holey and ventilated.”
James put a hand on Cain’s shoulder, “Ian’s right dude. Let's be sneakier about it and save us all a few headaches.” He felt Cain’s shoulders drop as he acquiesced. “Ian, head around back and find a window to break. When Seth goes to check it out, Cain and I will slip in through the front door and grab her. You good with that?”
Ian snapped to attention, slapping the back of his right hand against his forehead, elbow straight out to the side and stiffening his posture, “Aye aye, mon Cap-e-tain! Vive la resistance!” he whispered, before grabbing an imaginary rifle and sneaking off to the back yard in a low crouch, like a drunk commando.
James felt Cain start to shake under his hand, and when he turned to look at him, Cain was violently resisting the urge to give in to a full belly laugh as he watched Ian trip and stumble along, hamming up his performance even more with another salute when he looked back before disappearing around the corner. James could feel himself starting to lose it as well. Ian had a way of relieving the tension from any situation, but this threatened to be a perfect example of when not to make a joke. Just as the two of them were about to crack, tears streaming down both of their cheeks, the sound of glass shattering snapped them back to reality.
“Takezat, you nazi peeg!” Ian screamed at the house, channeling his best French resistance fighter, before ducking out of the yard and running back to the van to get the doors open
Stifling another laugh, Cain looked up over the window sill again and saw Seth stomping off toward the back of the house. He motioned for James to follow him, and they both approached the door quietly. He twisted the handle and slowly pushed it open just enough to see into the room, revealing Tamara's motionless form still on the couch, breathing, but far from conscious. Cain crept up to the side of the couch and deftly slid the “Persuader” from his waistband, keeping watch on the back of the house as James checked on Tamara. He spotted what he figured was Seth’s phone on the end table, but as he reached out to grab it, he noticed it was a bit different from the standard ‘Droid or iPhone. It was about twice the thickness of his own phone, and the screen seemed to be made of a bluish white steel instead of the more familiar black. Either way, into his pocket it went. Seth wouldn’t be inviting any friends to this party. He returned his attention back to the couch. “How is she doing?” he asked, still watching the back hallway for movement.
“She’s pretty rough dude - I’m just gonna carry her. Watch my back.” James said as he bent down and grabbed the unconscious girl by the thighs and the shoulder, hoisting her over his head into a fireman's carry as he rose to his feet.
“Where’d ya go ya little bitch?!”, came the strained voice of Seth, still searching the back yard for the francophone vandal, “Come on out ya pussy!”
Cain grabbed the door and held it open as James and his heavier than she looked passenger silently slipped out the door. He locked the handle before pulling the door closed, just in time to see a bewildered and slightly aggravated Seth step into the room, staring at his now vacant couch. “Dude, he’s back inside!”, he whispered as he sprinted past James, urging him forward.
James heaved forward toward the van, the side door of which was being held open by Ian. “Cain! Take her!”, he yelled as he got to the curb, bending down so the other two could load Tamara in. Freed from his burden, he ran to the driver's door and popped it open, jumping into the seat and jamming the key into the ignition. As he twisted the key and the engine roared to life, he looked up to see Seth struggling with the front door of his house, while staring straight at them and screaming something incoherent. “Lets’ go let’s go let’s go!” he shouted, as Cain and Ian rolled into the van behind Tamara, Ian pulling the doors shut behind them. James floored the gas and guided the Dodge in a tight half circle, leaving a thick white cloud between themselves and Seth. The tires kept spinning well into second gear as he picked up speed, and as he checked the side mirror to see if they were being followed, he caught a flash,and recoiled as the mirror exploded into a cloud of fractured triangles, cutting his cheek. “Fuck!”
Cain jumped forward between the seats, grabbing the wheel and giving James a chance to gather himself. As he corrected the vans course, two more shots hit the back doors, ricocheting through the interior and filling it with a smoky haze.
James wiped the blood from his face on his forearm and grabbed the wheel again. “I got it man. Get in the seat and keep that fucker off of us!”
Cain's face lit up. “Fuck yeah! Fireworks time baby!” He rolled the window down in a half second, before hoisting himself up and perching on the edge of the door, scanning the road behind them for signs of pursuit. Through the remnants of the tire smoke, he could just make out the halo of headlights flicking on across the road from the house. He slapped the roof of the van as he informed James of the situation, “He’s coming after us man! Light ‘em up!
James kept his right foot firmly planted on the floor, smearing the pedal into it like a spent cigarette. As the RPMs climbed higher, he couldn’t help but smile a little bit at how well the old girl was performing. Once again, she had been there exactly when he needed her the most. He switched to the brake pedal about a hundred feet from the intersection ahead of them, forcing all of the vans weight onto the front wheels, and all of the passengers that had been in the back, conscious or not, into the front. He released the brake as the front wheels crossed the painted lines of the crosswalk, allowing the weight to settle before getting back on the gas and breaking the tires loose as he swung hard right, drifting across the centerline of his intended street.
Ian used the brief break in lateral G-force to extract himself from the center console, having had the presence of mind to put himself between the dash and Tamara before her body had become an unconscious missile. He managed to get her packed up against the edge of the bed on the floor, using his right leg as a barrier as he braced against the wall of the van with his foot, his back pressed against the cabinet. Satisfied with the sturdiness of his position, he gave a thumbs up to the two in the front seats.
Route 66 was coming into view ahead of them, the pale fluorescent light of the Circle K casting a fallow sheen across the intersection. As James slowed down to make the turn, a thundering crack from the passenger side followed by an enthusiastic “Get some, fucker!” and the smell of cordite announced that Seth had managed to make up enough ground on them to get within range of Cain and the Persuader. James swung left on to the highway as Cain racked another shell into the receiver, the spent casing bouncing across the dashboard and coming to rest in the defogger vent. Cain fired again, the spread of buckshot perforating the hood and detonating the passenger headlight of the 1988 Mustang Seth had boosted and hastily covered in red spray paint earlier that week. It didn’t seem to register with Seth at all, who kept firing at the back of the van and missing completely. As they rounded the monument again, the lighter car was able to make up ground on the old Dodge and get close enough for Seth to read the “If the van’s a rockin’ don’t come a knockin’” bumper sticker. Having spent all six shots, he floored the gas and braced himself as the back of the van approached like a wall.
Cain wasn’t as distracted. He grabbed the top of the passenger door from the inside, and leaned out the window as far as he could, stretching his arm toward the Mustang to close the gap as much as possible. He fired, and the right-front tire of the car disintegrated as Seth tried to turn to avoid the shot. The rim dug into the asphalt, bending the entirety of the suspension and wheel assembly under the engine and vaulting the car into the air in a shower of sparks. It came down on the roof and rolled end over end, finally coming to rest in the canal off the side of the highway, on fire and upside down.
“Woo! Suck it bitch!”, Cain screamed in triumph, sliding back inside and dropping into the seat. “Fireworks! Fuck yeah!”
“What happened?”, asked James, grinning at the maniacal face that was beaming at him from the other seat. The words had barely left his lips when the shockwave from the exploding fuel tank in the Mustang rocked the van. James looked over his shoulder and saw the orange mushroom slowly rising over the wreck. “Damn, do you think he made it out?
“What the hell was that?” Ian shouted from the floor. “Did we win?”
“Cain blew up a pony full of meth” James answered, the gravity of the moment still not fully realized.
“Wait, he’s dead? Did we just kill a guy? What the fuck Cain!?”
“I wasn’t trying to kill him man! He was trying to kill us!” Cain responded, painfully aware of the still smoking shotgun in his hand.
James took stock of the situation. He looked at the road ahead of them, and checked over his shoulder again. The only thing on the road appeared to be them and the quickly shrinking fireball behind them. “Relax, I don’t think anyone saw us. Let's just get to Ted’s place and we can figure out what we’re gonna do then. Ian, is she still breathing?”
Ian bent down and listened, hearing a faint, raspy drawing of breath from Tamara. “Yeah, she’s still here. Still dunno for how long though. That bastard must have hit her hard.”
“Uncle Ted’s got some history with stuff like this. He’ll take a look at her and patch her up.” James had been on the receiving end of Ted’s first aid ministrations more than a few times in the past, and though they lacked the soothing bedside manner and practiced hand of a trauma nurse, they got the job done. He had always wondered where Ted had learned some of the more esoteric things he seemed to know, but knew better than to ask.
He let off the gas as Ted’s gaudy pink and blue neon sign became legible, and eased the van off the road and into the yard.
Ted met them in the driveway as they rolled in, motioning towards an open shipping container with an AR-15 as he scanned the road behind them for anyone that might be following. James drove straight in, leaving a scant few inches of space on either side. Ted swung the rear doors open as soon as the van stopped, as Cain and Ian hopped out pulling Tamara with them. Ted stopped them as soon as he could reach her neck to check for a pulse.
“Do you know where she got hit?” he asked, feeling the back of her head for lesions while holding one of her eyes open to check for pupil dilation response.
“No man, she was out when we got there. What do you need us to do?” Cain asked, looking to Ted for any kind of reassurance.
“Get her inside. There’s a couch in the shop office you can put her on. James, you make sure that box is closed, then roll that old bus in front of it when you’re done. Come on now!” Ted was uncharacteristically solemn, his normally abrasive and loud demeanor supplanted by a sense of urgency and focus that made it clear to everyone he was not to be taken lightly. Cain and Ian hurriedly carried the unconscious girl into the office as James set about locking up the container, his beloved home safely tucked away inside.
Ted flung open a cabinet on the wall in the attached bathroom, and pulled down an olive green canvas bag emblazoned with a red cross, unzipping it as he set it down on the floor in front of the couch.He pulled out a pack of smelling salts, cracking it under Tamaras nose in an attempt to bring her around. She started shaking her head back and forth and tried to brush the salts away just as James appeared in the office doorway, still looking out toward the road as he closed the door.
Tamara’s eyes flicked open, and in an instant of realization she started swinging, catching Ted with a quick left before Cain could grab her wrist and restrain her. “Get the fuck offa me you son of a…”, she screamed, before coming around a bit more and realizing she was no longer in Seth’s company. “What… how did I get here? Cain? Let me go!”
Cain released her wrist, relatively certain she wasn’t going to try knocking anyone else out, and sat down on the couch beside her. “How's your head?” he asked, looking it over to see if he could spot any injuries.
“Oh, she’s just fine!” groaned Ted, sitting up from his previous position on the floor. “Hell of a left too. Want some ice for those knuckles?”
“ I’m fine. Just leave me alone.” She got up from the couch, swatting Cain’s hand away as she swayed, still punch drunk. “Why am I at the scrapyard?” She turned to stare at Ted accusingly.
“Three’s company here found you passed out on the side of the highway, and figured they’d help out for some reason. I’d have let you rot.” Ted shot the three friends a stern look when Tamara turned to look in their direction. Everybody got the hint and picked up on the ruse immediately, each acutely aware of the consequences if the truth got out right then.
Tamara tried to remember her day, searching for any reason she might have been anywhere near the highway, but came up empty. “Whatever. Thanks I guess.” She headed out of the office towards the shop door, supporting herself on workbenches and customer cars along the way, making no more eye contact with anyone in the building. Cain started to get up to follow and ask if she needed a ride, but Ted stopped him with a firm hand on his chest and a look that he understood immediately.
Once she had cleared the area in front of the shop door, Ted turned to Cain, grabbing him by both shoulders. “You’re gonna give that twit a ride huh? Right past the barbecue you geniuses just threw for her dealer? How fucking stupid are ya?”
Cain stared at the floor. “Yeah, I know. Fuck I hate that guy. She used to be a different person, y’know? I hope that douchenozzle burns forever.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s nice and crispy. Speaking of… you didn’t see anyone else out there that could finger you guys, did ya?” Ted moved to the window behind the desk and peeked through the bent and nicotine stained blinds at the highway. The dull orange glow could still be seen in the distance, while somewhat closer to the property, Tamara was slowly staggering in the direction of the town. He pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his chest pocket and removed a slightly curved cigarette, popping it between his lips.
“Nah, it’s dead out there. Everybody in this shithole is asleep by seven anyway.” James answered back, snapping open a Zippo and flicking the flint wheel in a single motion, offering the flickering flame to Ted. “You still got a first aid bottle in that cabinet?”, he asked, motioning toward the bathroom. Ted nodded, and James stepped into the small alcove, swinging the small door open and pulling out a half empty bottle of Don Julio. “Ian, grab a few cups, will ya?”
Ian reached over to the end table in the corner of the room, coming back with four well loved and well worn coffee mugs, procured from around an ancient drip coffee maker that harbored an opaque liquid one would be hard pressed to tell apart from motor oil. He passed them out and kept one for himself. James poured an equal measure into each mug, emptying the bottle between the four of them. It had been one hell of a day, and it didn’t look good for tomorrow. The four of them sat down, Ted in his rickety wooden office chair and the rest on the sagging couch, and got to figuring out their next move.
“What the fuck did we just do?” James mused out loud, staring into his cup as he swirled the tequila around in the bottom. “There’s no way he got out, is there?”
Ted shook his head, “Not from what I could see. He rolled about four times after Cain took him out, then came the fireworks. Unless he got thrown clear, he’s medium rare. And, if he did get chucked out of that thing, I haven’t seen anyone coming to help. It’s still burnin’ now…”
I have given this novel a high rating, not because it is deathless prose, but because it delivers exactly what it promises. It is aimed at young male readers interested in violent and antisocial digital games like “Grand Theft Auto.” However, it doesn’t fall into the trap of trying to mimic a game. This is Space Opera at its most basic: simple plot, interesting but stereotyped characters with straightforward motivation, a whole lot of scientific toys and action, action, action.
It is the story of three typical American “good ol’ boys:” unmotivated twenty-somethings whose only interests are liquor, hot cars, guns, and girls (in that order). Luck presents them with an alien 3-D printer that can create anything they want. Predictably, they fabricate hot vehicles and spaceships with fancy guns, and go looking for adventure, during which they find plenty of liquor. The “girls” come far down the list.
This sort of story doesn’t usually have much going for it thematically, but reading between the lines, the unfortunate conclusion we must draw is that young men in this situation, given the choice, are pretty much doomed to become criminals.
But we don’t complain; that concept probably appeals to the intended readership.
So, if you’re going to enjoy this book be ready to suspend your disbelief a lot. For example, picture a phone-sized gadget that can convert a 1977 Dodge B100 van into an ass-kickin’ space runabout.
Also, be ready for a certain amount of stereotyping. The three main characters are popped out of the same mould. Aided by the author’s loose attitude towards point of view, they pretty much blend together.
The story could be improved by a bit more urgency in the conflict. Our heroes meander through the adventure like they have lived their lives; the wind and the currents of space blow them wherever they will. It’s hard to get involved in a conflict when the characters themselves don’t seem to care too much what happens in the long run.
And a warning to more sophisticated customers; this is an entertaining read, but you gotta remember that what appeals to these characters — like getting pie-eyed on a different type of liquor every night — gets real old, real fast for most of us.
Highly recommended for YA Space Opera fans. A fun, quick read for others.