Kaleb's Critters

Chapter 4

“This is your Exxy?”

The hangar was a cramped, oily affair. Faulty wiring and dim fluorescent lights cast a dull glow about the place. Several of the bulbs in the banks above were burned out; others flickered intermittently. Grease-blackened rags hung from hooks above a tool cabinet with rusty, yawning doors, and the whole room smelt like an inner-city chop shop. Robin felt suddenly claustrophobic, but not because of the hangar’s size—the interior was actually rather spacious. It was the ship, resting heavily on three massive steel treads, that dominated the room: restricting Robin and Nowell’s space and making the truly large space seem confined.

“Certainly is,” Simon beamed, his reedy voice echoing across the metal-plated hangar. “Best exfiltrator money can buy! Just stay here a minute while I go look up the new system passcode.” The gaunt man walked toward a small office, his smog-jacket fluttering in the stale air, and disappeared through a thin door. Robin was left alone.

A low, almost erotic, whisper of machinery thrummed in the stuffy storage space, and several lights flickered on across its massive, asymmetrical hull. Titanium panels, each wider than he was tall and pockmarked by re-entry burns, lay in piles around the massive vehicle’s treads. Robin could make out the bright yellow of vacuum insulation and massive tangles of wire through the holes the panels used to occupy.

“It looks like a wrecked pirate rig,” Robin murmured to himself, checking over his shoulder briefly for Nowell, disbelief heavy in his voice. “This is the famous ‘Sheila?’ Really?”

“That’s what the Channel has us call ‘er,” came a deep, rumbling voice from underneath the beaten vessel. Robin jumped, and a man of midnight complexion suddenly rolled from beneath the front-most tread upon a neon orange cart—how the massive vehicle had been lifted high enough for him to work down there was a mystery. Coming to an abrupt stop, the man rose to his feet. “But we prefer ‘Satan’s Gran’ma’.”

He was about an inch taller than Robin, his stained, yellow coverall contrasting heavily with charcoal skin stretched over firm muscle. Kind, rheumy eyes blinked slowly beneath a full head of cropped black hair streaked with fibers of butter-yellow insulation. The man looked strong enough to carry a wrench the size of Robin’s arm. Wiping a thin film of sweat from his brow with a pristine, white rag, the mechanic held a hand out for Robin to shake. “Name’s Samuel Ableman, but my friends call me ‘Abe.’” Samuel flashed him a dazzling ivory grin. “You must be the new cameraman… Fairweather, right?”

“Yeah,” Robin smiled nervously, taking his hand. The shake felt of grease and calluses: the weathered hand of a workingman. Fairweather liked him immediately. “Sorry… How old is she?”

“Made in forty-nine, same as me,” Abe chuckled, releasing Robin from his grip.

“An original?” Fairweather ran his eyes along the behemoth explorer’s hull. It surely looked worn enough to be a ’49 Exfiltrator. He turned back to Abe and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you. You don’t look a day over fifty.”

Abe chuckled. “Flattery will get you everywhere, kid.” He cast a loving eye over the ship. “I’ve been flying with Mr. Burnow for thirty years now…” Turning back to Robin, he clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “She’s the sturdiest ship in the city. You got nothin’ to worry about.”

Someone cleared his throat behind the pair. Looking over his shoulder—still held firmly in Abe’s friendly grip—Robin found Nowell smirking evilly at them.

“Samuel,” he schmoozed, the words slithering off his tongue like a lazy snake. “Getting a bit friendly with the new hire are we?” Abe’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly before returning to their previous, exuberant state.

“Hello, Simon! God, it’s been almost a month!” he released Robin’s shoulder and strode toward the greasy Channel Rep, his thick, gray machinist boots clunking loudly on the steel floor. “How’s the wife?”

“Still divorcing me,” Nowell’s smile morphed into an annoyed frown, “same as last year.”

“You must really love Republic paperwork, Simey,” Abe pulled up in front of Nowell and roughly tousled his oily black hair. “What is this… the third time?” Simon scowled and pushed the mechanic away.

“At least I’ve been married, faggot,” the Channel man growled. “If Burnow didn’t insist I kept you I would’ve had you canned years ago.”

Abe tutted, wagging a finger in Simon’s direction: “Testy today, Nowell?” He crossed his arms and smiled. “You may want to be careful what you say around your elders.”

Robin never thought it possible that the gaunt ICU grad could get any whiter, but in that moment Simon Nowell paled. The Channel representative nervously searched the room, eyes flickering spastically as he slowly scanned the hangar. Ableman chuckled.

“Calm down, Simon. He’s still at the Channel Office, downloading this run’s research files.”

Nowell visibly relaxed, letting out a pent-up sigh and slumping at the shoulders. He glared at the still giggling mechanic and snorted, his thin face twisting in anger. “Fuck you, Sam. That wasn’t funny.”

Abe just laughed harder.

Fuming quietly, Nowell turned and stomped back into the small hangar office, slamming the door behind him. Slowly, Ableman’s laughter died down, and he cast a warm smile in Robin’s direction. “All right, you. Lets go take a look at your new station.”

He began walking around the front tread of the exfiltrator and Robin quickly followed, questions weighing him down as he ducked under a hanging clump of wires. “If you don’t mind me asking, what was that all about?” Samuel glanced over his shoulder and shrugged.

“Simon’s a bit of an ass, but you get used to him.”

“I meant why did he get so nervous after you mentioned his ‘elders?’” Robin felt like he should know the answer to this one, but the nagging feeling of knowing who Abe was talking about was offset by total inexperience with the other members of Sheila’s crew.

“Kaleb’s a stickler for language and mutual respect among crew members,” Abe snorted. “He’s a bit old fashioned that way: a real hard-ass, him.”

Robin nodded to himself. That made sense. Mr. Burnow had been rather curt with him yesterday after the interview: he didn’t seem like the kind of man who messed around, though his warm grin and fatherly personality spoke otherwise…

“Simey loves his job,” Abe continued as the two men approached a small console jutting from the exfiltrator’s titanium underbelly. “Traveling off-planet for months at a time gets him away from his ex-wives, alimony hearings, and empty flat.” The black mechanic reached up, tapping three evenly spaced red buttons and yanking downward on a thick, gray pump. “Mr. Burnow may, technically, be an employee, but he holds the most Channel stock out of any filmman.” Hydraulics squealed, and a section of the ship above split, lowered to the ground before them on gleaming silver struts until it was just a foot above the hangar floor. “Kaleb’s been around a long time, and Nowell knows not to get on his bad side if he wants to keep his position.”

The ramp floor creaked as the heavy man stepped upward, hydraulic supports sagging lower with the addition of his weight. He turned and gestured Fairweather aboard with a carefree smile and wave of his hand. Robin paused, looking at the platform skeptically for a moment, before stepping onto the Exxy-Trap Entryway. “Satan’s Grandma, huh?”

“Eh, she’s an old ship, but she’s a good one,” Abe said, caressing a corner-support fondly. “A little rough around the edges, but I wouldn’t trade ‘er for the world.”

“You sound like a pilot,” Robin chuckled, watching the mechanic work a small hand-crank, slowly raising the platform into the belly of the beast.

“I oughta,” Ableman winked, “I do fly this tub when the mood strikes me… around every six months or so.”

Robin’s eyes widened in realization: “You’re the Dutchman?!” A memory, old and worn but still surprisingly vivid, permeated his senses. He was sitting in the wicker chair his father made in a fit of usefulness one Monday morning, watching the television. “Kaleb’s Critters” was on, and the hunt had just ended.

“Shiela, we’ve bagged our last one. Take us home.”

“This is the Flying Dutchman, calling in. S’good to hear your voice, Mr. Burnow. I’ll be making a pass in five; just hold tight.” The camera panned to a low, grassy knoll, and a dull roar emanated from the television speakers. The hulking shape of an exfiltrator crested the horizon, the straining engines making the camera shake—“Steady there, Sage”—and the alien plants rustle and sway. “Terrestrial Body – 2466, 4:25 Universal Time: this is the Captain of the Exfiltrator, Sheila, on approach.”

“Got one last catch to load here, Dutchy. Then we're Earthbound.”

The memory faded, and Robin found himself rising into a dark room. Abe’s chuckling vibrated the air to his left, and as the platform rose to a halt, fluorescent lights began to flicker on. “Yeah, that’s me. Funny story, really. Kaleb started calling me that after my first run with the show.” They were in a holding area of sorts: steel bars criss-crossed the sturdy, stagnant room, and Robin noticed glaring red and yellow signs warning away the unwary from the electrified cages. Brown stains were seared into the steel plates of several cells—vibrant and fresh. “I was still a copilot then, and we had to make a water-landing to pick up one of Kaleb’s catches—a Sleppa Whale—when the original pilot, Dante, froze up.

“It was stormin’ pretty bad by the time we got there. Kaleb’s dinghy was tossing and turning all over the place, and Jonathan ‘Danger’ Dante just stopped steering.” Samuel set the crank into a locked position and stepped off the platform, moving past the charged cages and toward a more brightly lit corridor of the ship. “So I just put on the throttle an’ scooped the boat up in the exxy-trap like one a’ them water birds Kaleb goes on about. Killed the sleppa in the process—nearly cut the poor bastard in half—but it sure impressed Mr. Burnow. S’called me ‘Dutchy’ ever since.”

Their footsteps echoed lightly around them. Lights glared from metal sockets, and the hallway met another, wider corridor lined with numbered, metal doors. The hall ahead continued for another ten yards or so before ending in a large flex-glass portal that Robin assumed led to the cockpit. Unfortunately, it didn’t appear he would be seeing the inside quite yet, for Abe disregarded the transparent doorway, turning left onto the adjoining corridor. The new cameraman pushed his disappointment aside: he’d explore the antique ship in due time, so for now, he would be content to follow Abe.

“So are you from the Eastern Republics, then?” Robin asked, hoping to continue the conversation.

“Nah. I’ve never even visited.” They passed a door adorned with a strange decoration. Frayed and fuzz-covered, an animal hide stretched across the dull, grey surface, giving it a splash of color and covering the metal number tag. “The name comes from an old legend from when people still used rigged sailing vessels. It was about a pirate ship that sailed both the skies and the sea for plunder, transitioning between the two with a violent—and very wet—crash. Hence, the ‘Flying Dutchman’.”

“That’s… interesting?” Robin had never really paid attention during his history classes at the University. Trying to imagine what a sailing vessel looked like, he nearly ran into the mid-aged pilot where he stood in the center of the corridor. He had placed himself in front of a door—the same make as the others lining the passageway—labeled “25” in black etching upon a silver tag. Scratched next to the tag, probably with a knife or razor, was a name:

SAGE

“Here we are,” Abe said, eyeing the doorway with a sad, uncomfortable smile. “Your quarters.” He pressed the door-indent, and it slid into the wall. The pilot stepped through, and Robin, hesitantly, followed.

Fluorescent lights flickered—Robin was noticing a pattern here—and a half naked woman emerged from the darkness. A dark-skinned beauty, lounging against a column of red velvet leafed with gold. Auburn curls flowed down soft, bare shoulders like a waterfall, ending just above her shoulder blades. An actress, Robin recognized, from an old film. He couldn’t, for the life of him remember her name… something Spanish…

Whatever the case, she was wearing far too much clothing.

The poster, beautiful as it was, seemed out of place in the small berth. Ten by eight walls glowed dully with bits of crafted metal, film, and glossy photos of alien landscapes. The bed was a cramped affair, tucked into the corner of the room to Robin’s left: directly across from the erotic poster. A desk of sorts jutted from the eastern wall next to a set of clothes-lockers, topped with a small touchboard and a jar filled with an earthy, red substance. There was little clutter, but the new cameraman was surprised nonetheless… it was as if someone had been living there just yesterday.

“We never got around to moving out everything,” Abe sighed, “the lockers are empty except for a few tech manuals, so you’ll have plenty of room for your things.”

“Thank you,” Robin murmured, watching his guide carefully. The Dutchman suddenly looked very old, his eyes—bright and jovial not five minutes ago—were dull and listless, his ebony skin desiccated and aged. Fairweather wanted to help him, but feared overstepping his bounds. He’d just met the man, after all…

Abe ran a hand through his hair and sighed a second time, turning to leave the room. “Make yourself at home. When you’re finished you can meet Nowell outside.”

Fuck it.

“How did he die?” Robin asked quietly, avoiding the pilot’s eyes. He heard Samuel stop at the door.

Silence reigned for several, tense seconds, before Abe finally spoke:

“He left. Walked off in the middle of the night.”

Robin finally met the cheerless pilot’s eyes, looking inward, trying to understand—to help. “Why?”

“Dunno,” Abe grunted, giving Robin a pained smile. “Dumbass smiled and waved at the main recorder, then just walked into the Sularan Jungle. We searched for a three weeks: nothing.” He turned, slowly stepping through the doorway before giving Robin one last backward glance. “Look around, then you can meet Simey outside.” He smiled—genuine and kind under a pair of sorrowful eyes. “You’re a good kid. I gotta check in with my copilot, but feel free to hit me up later, all right?”

“Thanks, sir. I’ll do that.” Robin returned his smile best he could and the door slid shut, leaving him alone in the room of a dead man; dead but still here.

He stood up and wandered the room, fingering the odd, metal objects fixed to the walls and looking at each photo carefully: an orange beach lapped by waves of deep blue and dazzling white, a rocky mountain range stretching into the heavens among clouds of grey, avian creatures, and a man, alone and vacuum-sealed in a field of blinding, colorless snow beneath a blood-red sky.

Robin leaned forward, looking closer at the final photo. The vacuum suit visor was opaque, reflecting the crimson sky above and obscuring anything that could be defined as facial features. Was this Sage? Or someone else?

Suddenly, the lights went out and a metallic screech rent the hull, making the ship shudder and jilt violently for a few seconds.

“DEX! What the FUCK!” a faint voice yelled, presumably from the bowels of the exfiltrator.

“It wasn’t me! I swear!”

The arguing faded away into the ether, and Robin carefully tried to pick his way to the door. His foot caught on the edge of Sage the Dead Man’s small bed, and he felt gravity take hold. Stumbling, Robin landed on his back and braced himself with his arms, barely avoiding a head injury. He had closed his eyes during the fall—a reflex—and quickly opened them upon landing safely. What he found gave him pause, and the new cameraman just lay on the thinly-carpeted floor and stared.

Pinpoints of light hung in the darkness, scattered like rain in the moonlight.

Stars… the ceiling was covered in glowing, painted stars.