CHAPTER 3 – THE WORLD WAS GONNA ROLE ME
"V.O. 938 now leaving the station," said the pilot over the intercom.
Ford gripped the edge of his seat and looked out the window as the ship entered pure space.
Vesta looked enormous, with only a portion of its brown and blue surface visible. He could make out city grids below, a few of them still glimmering on the dark side of the planet. It wasn't unlike Earth, with its gentle clouds and watery surface; it was just missing the green.
After a few minutes of flight, Ford relaxed into his seat. He was the only passenger among the rows of empty seats.
All right. The only people aboard this ship are the pilot, the co-pilot, and myself. If I time things right, I can probably break away from them on Janus.
A siren started up, loud and insistent. Ford gripped his safety restraints and looked out the window for anything amiss. In the distance, he could see a gray object approaching them like a bullet from the direction of the planet.
The ship rolled out of the way to avoid the missile and it slipped from Ford's view.
A force slammed into them and sent them spinning. Vesta and the stars passed by Ford's window in a blur. Red lights flashed.
"Warning. Fatal damage," said a robotic female voice.
"Attention," the pilot said. His tone was urgent, but under control as it echoed through the intercom. "We've been hit by a projectile from Vesta. We're going to make an emergency landing.
"But the Shreep-" said a woman's voice. Ford could barely hear her over the siren.
"-Martha, trust me! This is our only option. That missile put us in critical condition. Our chance of survival up here is zero percent."
The ship stopped spinning, then faced toward the planet. Vesta grew larger, swallowing the sky.
The belly of the ship turned to face the ground as it entered the atmosphere. The expanse of ocean stretched out beneath them with the land far out of reach.
They jutted forward, and the ship shuddered as they flew over the briny whitecaps.
The belly of the ship touched the water, sending a jolt through it. Waves washed over the ship and dragged it below the surface. Bubbles and algae scurried out of the way of Ford's window, and he could see nothing but dark depths below.
Ford tugged at his straps, undoing what felt like a hundred different clips before breaking free, then glanced around for an exit.
The floor rattled and bucked under Ford's feet. He grabbed a chair and steadied himself until the ship stopped moving.
The ship must have hit the bottom, he thought.
The cockpit door slid aside, revealing the copilot supporting the pilot with her shoulder.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I'm fine. What about him?" Ford gestured to the pilot.
His gaze wandered, his eyes unfocused. Blood trickled from his scalp.
The copilot grimaced. "I'm not sure. Let's just focus on getting out of here."
The two pilots stumbled to the command interface. The woman, who Ford assumed was Martha, typed in a code, opening the door.
Cold water spewed inside, drenching them and quickly filling their tiny pocket of air. Ford gripped a nearby seat to keep himself from being swept away by the surge. He took a deep breath, then once the water had finished, he pushed forward, swimming through the door.
Ford swam beside Martha and the pilot, then grabbed the pilot's other arm to help him past the twisted metal of the cargo hold.
The intense pressure in Ford's ears eased when he came to the surface. He forced his head out of the water, taking in deep breaths.
As the three of them treaded water, Ford peered through droplet-covered glasses at the closest land mass. It was farther than he would've liked.
"Look!" Martha pointed to an approaching yellow boat. "They heard our distress signal. That's a relief. I thought the Shreep were going to find us first.
Before Ford could ask what she meant by that, the boat neared them and slowed.
"Someone, help them up!"
Hands grabbed Ford's arms and yanked him into the boat.
Ford got to his feet, water dripping from his hair and down the end of his nose. He wiped his glasses in vain, then scanned the group of a dozen or so people. Some of them removed their scarves and goggles, eyeing the three newcomers with curiosity. All of them were dressed for surviving the desert wilderness in some way or another. One of them wore a sombrero, while another had a cowboy hat perched on his head.
The refugees helped Martha sit the pilot in the corner. He squeezed his eyes shut as he leaned back against the side of the boat. Martha sat beside him, a hand resting on his shoulder.
The boat turned around and sped toward land. With the hot wind whipping past them, it only took the length of the drive to dry the three of them out.
When the group had docked the boat, the woman at the helm turned to them and folded her arms, looking them up and down. She removed her hood and pulled down her scarf. The woman had a head of dark hair in a braid and a large nose.
"Welcome to our little refugee camp," she said, gesturing to pillars of sandstone ahead. "What are your names?"
"Stanford Pines."
"I'm Martha," she said from the ground. "This is my husband, Howard."
The woman nodded. "I'm Debi Barientos, the leader of this refugee camp." Debi turned away put a hand on a blond girl's shoulder. "Hey Lily, this guy needs medical attention. Get him to Dr. Meyers."
The girl nodded and knelt beside Howard. With Martha's help, they supported him as they walked down a ramp to shore.
The rest of the group fanned out across the sand, their eyes scanning the area. Ford walked beside Debi and followed her through the sandstone maze.
A cluster of tents sat at the heart of the maze, only visible when they turned a corner-a secret desert village.
The people in the camp watched with interest as the group came in. The dirty faces congregated around the bonfire in the center of camp chatted with one another, sometimes pointing at Ford.
They passed a food station where an old woman and a boy were shaking dust off of what looked like onions, but with ropy tendrils hanging off them. The boy stared, neglecting his onion. This earned a chastisement from the old woman. The smell of soup wafted from their area.
"What's the reason for the secret camp?" Ford asked Debi. "What are you hiding from?"
Debi raised an eyebrow. "Were you a new recruit at the space station?"
"Not exactly. I was on my way to Janus. I'm... new to this conflict."
"The Shreep invaded this planet looking to use us for their hatcheries."
Ford's eyes widened. "Hatcheries? As in, aliens are using humans as hosts for their eggs?"
"That's right."
He shuddered inwardly. "Are the... Shreep... responsible for the attack on our ship?"
"Probably. Tensions have been high ever since the space station was moved to observe our situation. The U.I.R. sends us supplies from time to time while they wait for the right time to extract us. I'll bet the Shreep thought you were a supply ship."
"Why not just extract you now?"
Debi folded her arms. "The U.I.R. has been trying to negotiate with the Shreep for the planet, but the Shreep will never budge. They should just end it already and blast those roaches into the sky." She glared at the dirt.
"I'm sorry," Ford said. "How long have you been here?"
Debi put her hand to her chin, looking at the ground thoughtfully. "I'd say it's been six Sol months, give or take."
"Oh. That's..."
"Yeah..." Debi rubbed the back of her neck. "And now you're one of us. I wouldn't worry, though. We'll get out of this, one way or another." She stared off into the distance, quiet as the bonfire's light flickered across her eyes.
Debi sighed and pushed away some stray black hairs from her face. "We might have a spare cot in tent C." She pointed to a nearby tent with a domed roof. "You might as well make yourself at home."
"Thanks," Ford said, frowning.
"Don't mention it. By the way, dinner is at sundown."
Ford nodded and walked away. As he left, Debi was surrounded by several other refugees. They attacked her with questions.
"Who was that?"
"What happened?"
Ford didn't care to stay around and listen. He pulled back the flap entrance to tent C and was greeted by the stares of a few refugees. They were kneeling on the ground, paused in their sheet-folding.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Um, hi. Debi said I could find an empty cot in here."
"You must be one of the crash survivors," one of them said. She got to her feet and offered Ford an old, shaky hand. Ford took it, finding that her grip was stronger than he expected.
"I'm Ford."
"Cara. I'm the head of tent C." She smiled, exaggerating the lines around her mouth. "I'll show you to your cot."
Cara led the way to one of many curtains lining the side of the circular room. Ford felt the stares of the other refugees as he slipped behind the curtain.
On the other side of the curtain was another circular room with beds lining the outside edge. Cara stopped at a cot with a rusted trunk at the foot of the bed.
"This used to be Bundi's, until he got snatched by a couple of roaches." Cara stared at the bed, her wrinkled face scrunching up.
The silence stretched between them. Ford shuffled his feet, not knowing what to say.
Cara shook her head. "Oh, I'm sorry." She wiped her eye. "I just got caught up in some memories. The cot is all yours. I'll let you get settled. If you need anything, I'm usually nearby." She wiped her nose on her sleeve and bustled past Ford, slipping behind the curtain again.
Ford approached the cot. It was a simple square topped with a dirty quilt. He tested it with a hand and it creaked in response. It was as hard as he expected, but he figured he could get used to it.
The chest at the foot of the bed captured his interest. The lid resisted him as he forced it up. Random objects-glass bottles, crumpled papers, and a magnifying glass-sat at the top. Ford shifted the contents around, looking for anything useful. He found a stick with notches cut into it, a beat-up golden locket, and an odd pen. The locket had a picture of an older lady with smile lines and dark brown hair. She was holding a toddler in overalls that had the same hair and a similar nose.
He closed the locket and put it back, suddenly feeling self-conscious about poking through someone else's personal things.
Ford was about to close the chest when he spotted a splotchy, purple-black leather book tucked in the corner. It blended with the shadows of the box—so much so that he almost missed it.
He pulled the book out and inspected the soft leather binding that kept together a thick wad of rough paper. Flipping through the pages, he couldn't find a mark in the journal.
I suppose I could use a new journal. It's not like Bundi's going to be using it. Still, Ford hesitated. The information in his past three journals could potentially destroy his home dimension. Maybe keeping another journal wasn't the best idea.
But it would be nice to collect my thoughts. Those are innocent enough. He moved a thumb across the book's leather surface. This time will be different.
Ford opened to the first page, then looked closely at the strange pen he found, looking for a clicker. He pressed a button on the top, but instead of a pen tip coming out, a red laser shot out, setting the first page on fire. Ford clicked the pen again, turning it off, and slammed the book shut, killing the fire.
He opened the book again and touched the burnt corner of the first page. Oops.
Ford tried turning the wheel on the center of the pen, then clicked it again with apprehension. This time, a regular ball-point tip appeared. He tested it out with a scribble, then began to write.
I have my reservations about starting a fourth journal, but old habits die hard. I can't tell how long it's been since my accident with my interdimensional portal. After an encounter with an advanced human society called the United Interstellar Republic, or the U.I.R. for short, I've lost track of time. There's no telling how long they let me sleep aboard that space station, but I'm guessing it was a while. I was beyond sleep deprived.
I can only wonder where Stanley is. After pushing me into the portal, he followed me. We both ended up in the Nightmare Realm, but we were separated when Stanley fell into a rift.
I'm clinging to the small hope that he's alive. If he's not dead, he's out there by himself, probably struggling to survive. I'm worried about him.
Ford sighed. He crossed out the last sentence, then continued.
If he is alive, I can't do anything for him right now. Before I can even think about finding him, I need to defeat Bill Cipher. It's a monumental task, but I'll undertake it if it means I can stop him from destroying my dimension and others. I'll begin with finding a weakness. Surely someone in the multiverse knows of a way to beat him.
Currently, I'm on a planet called Vesta. An alien species called the Shreep has invaded, and they're terrorizing the human inhabitants here. I must be on my guard if I hope to get out of this situation in one piece.
Ford nodded to himself. He searched the contents of the chest again and found a small sheet of metal and a jar of tar-like substance that was labeled "glue."
The scrap of metal gleamed under the skylight of tent C. With his new pen, he traced his hand and cut out the shape, creating a silver six-fingered hand. He held the symbol up and smiled.
After pasting the symbol on the front of the journal, he used the laser pen to make a four.
The sound of someone banging two pots together and shouting just outside the tent startled Ford. He placed the journal in the roomy pocket of his trench coat and left the sleeping quarters, poking his head outside the tent.
"Dinner!" shouted a boy from outside. "Get it now, or not at all!"
The chilly twilight air washed over Ford as he left the tent. He rubbed his arms and stayed at the edge of the crowd that gathered around the bonfire. Some were holding bowls of steaming soup. The ones with food made their way to the sitting areas at the edge of the camp.
The girl with the blond hair that helped Howard-Lily-was talking to a young man with dreadlocks. She tossed a roll at him, laughing at something he said.
Debi clapped Ford on the shoulder. "You look like a fish out of water there, Stanford."
He jumped. "How long were you standing there?"
"Not long." Folded clothes hung from her arm. "These are for you. I don't know when we'll be rescued, so I figured you'd need an extra pair of clothes."
He took the clothes and tucked them under his arm. "Thanks."
"Anyway, you should probably get some soup before the kids snatch it all. I'll catch you later. I have an announcement to make." She touched two fingers to her forehead in a farewell salute and disappeared into the crowd.
Ford spotted a line forming in front of a stand. Behind the open counter, the woman who was handling the strange onions from before stirred a massive pot. Joining the line felt like the last thing Ford wanted to do.
He felt like an outsider with no way to pierce the bubble. It had been a while since he'd been surrounded by such a large group. Between the stares of the refugees and his lack of an appetite, what he wanted most was to be alone with his thoughts, but Debi's shouting stopped him before he could leave.
"Everyone, stop whatever you're doing and listen up!" Debi stood on a crate, her arms spread wide.
The crowd turned its attention to Debi and quieted.
Debi lowered her arms and looked out across the mass of people. "Today, a U.I.R. ship was shot down on its way to Janus."
The crowd booed.
"We can't tolerate the Shreep shooting down our supply ships," she continued, "and I think we're all sick of waiting for the U.I.R. to make a move. I propose that in three days, we force their hand. Recently, some of our members were captured and taken to the Shreep hatcheries. Let's strike the Shreep in New Eris and rescue them. We will end this stalemate once and for all!" Debi raised her fist to the air.
The crowd did likewise. Cheers rose up.
Ford broke away from the group and escaped to the lip of the camp. Up on a ridge, a group of teenage refugees was eating together. Ford sat down a few feet away from them. They stop talking and studied him for a moment, then resumed their conversation.
From the ridge, he could see most of the land beyond; the sun painted the far mountains in hues of purple and colored the sandstone columns that jutted into the sky orange. In the distance, a city glimmered. Tiny skyscrapers made of glass reflected the sun's light.
That must be New Eris.
He couldn't see any signs of Shreep, but he had a feeling they were there, waiting. For a moment, Ford wondered if the refugees were really prepared for what they were going to do. With the excitement of the crash, it was easy to spur the refugees to action, but did they really know what they were up against? After all, they were hiding for a reason.
Someone sat down beside Ford, snapping him out of his thoughts. Martha nodded at Ford, wearing a thin smile. She held two steaming bowls of soup.
"I saw you leave and figured you'd want something." Martha handed him a bowl.
Ford stirred the contents, disrupting the watery yellow surface, his appetite unreachable. Instead, he poked at the purple broccoli things floating at the bottom.
"How's your husband?"
Martha stirred her soup. "He's felt better, but he's fine."
"Did you hear Debi's announcement?"
"I did. I'm not sure how I feel about it. The U.I.R. has been dragging their feet, but..." Martha raised her spoon to her mouth and sipped. "Well, I hope Debi knows what she's doing."
The group of teenagers laughed. A boy with short black hair made a finger pistol and pretended to shoot one of the girls. The girl fainted with a melodramatic cry, falling into the arms of the friend sitting next to her.
"I hope she does too."
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