Part Two: Letters From the Earth
I'm sure when I look back on this in the future, nothing in my experience will so remind me of Hell as the two months I spent on Earth.
Things might be different on other parts of the planet, true. There might be places where the air is cool and moist, where the mercury stays somewhere below 95 degrees. Maybe even places where space junk and bits of the moon don't rain down like intergalactic cruise missiles. But if there are, I don't spend any time in those parts of Earth while I'm there. Instead I'm combing the Southwest, which is blazingly hot and a visual dumpster. I've read that there used to be impressive natural monuments throughout this area, but all there is now is craters and sand. It is miserable, and so am I.
To get around, and to prevent any accidental damage by stray meteors, the magazine forces me to drive around in an ancient 1990's model tank, reassuring me that it is the only thing that could possibly withstand impact by a rock from space. I don't particularly believe that's true...some of the moon chunks are very large from what I've heard, and I don't think the tank is enough to keep me alive if a big one hits. I'm lucky, in as far as I only have a few close calls, but no actual impacts...though the effect these have on my mood is not beneficial. The mission is beginning to feel suicidal. Another added bonus of using the tank is the way the people I meet react to it. You'd be surprised how few people want to stick around long enough to see if you're carrying any live armament in such a vehicle. I have almost no luck getting leads in finding "Ed." Only Faye's insistence that she is there, and that this mysterious hacker is my only hope of tracking down Jet Black, keeps me keeping on.
I note, with a degree of irony, that this is part of the area where the original cowboys used to roam, back in the late 1800s. I don't feel particularly adventuresome anymore, and I feel even less inspired. In the month and a half I've been combing these deserts, asking anyone foolish enough to both be above ground and willing to talk to a stranger in a tank, I turn up absolutely nothing. And of course, there's no "Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV" in any directory I can get my hands on. It's turning into a complete wash, and in a fit of despair, I'm halfway to calling the editor-in-chief to abort the feature, when I notice a glint in the horizon.
There's something out there. I open the hatch and stand out there screaming and waving my arms, but there's no response. I can't tell for sure if it's another tank or just a truck, or something completely unique; but I can see for certain that at the rate it's moving, it'll be long gone if I don't do something fast.
I put the tank in gear. By dint of it's extremely advanced age, it's incapable of anything other than a leisurely pace. The whatever it is keeps getting smaller on the edge of the sky. Gears jam and grind as I plead with the prehistoric contraption to just go faster...but the other vehicle slips out of sight.
This is the final straw. Half-mad with rage, I bring the huge central gun to bear. The tank was indeed armed...the magazine was worried about raiders, but I never have any occasion to use it except out of sheer frustration. Aiming for a spot about a quarter-mile away, I let the three shells that came with the tank go. The fact that something in the goddamn machine works like it's supposed to is heartening, and the explosions are cathartic, needless to say.
On the other hand, once the boom of the shells fades...I come to realize that I'm now half-stranded in a rusted pile of junk, unarmed, and charged with a task that I seem destined not to complete. This is not the way I imagined it would be back at the Martian Arts Academy. I start dialing the number for the magazine again...when all of a sudden, the strange vehicle reappears on the horizon, heading straight for me.
"Oh, shit. Raiders. This is it." I now know that there is no hope in getting out of here alive. There's no point in waiting in that miserable pile any longer, either. They will get me eventually. I open the hatch up again, and climb out. Naked to the sky, I half expect a satellite to crash down and hit me before the raiders come. It's been that bad of a month.
The vehicle is a huge, rusty brown machine the likes of which I've not seen before. It really isn't any sort of truck or tank, though it is about the size of the old monster I've been living in. I guess the best way to describe it is as some sort of uber dune buggy. I know I'm going to die, and have resigned myself to it, when once again, the buggy surprises me.
It is making a beeline for me, but, when there was only a few hundred feet between us...it swerves abruptly, and heads for the craters of my tantrum. I stare, slack-jawed...now cheated of death by misadventure (literally), and not even feeling good about that. A second later, I realize they must not be raiders, and start running after the buggy, waving my arms and screaming at the top of my lungs. "Hey! Wait up! Goddamn it, you bastards, stop!!!" If they notice me, there's nothing to indicate it to me. The buggy stops at the craters...a man jumps out. I notice that he has purple hair, but can't see anything else from this range. He doesn't seem to notice me, either. Purple-hair shouts something to the driver, and climbs back in, apparently about to take off again.
About to be abandoned once more, and not even certain why I pinned so much emotional significance on contact with the buggy, I start to wish I'd taken the tank, even if it would have taken just as long to start it up again. I'm considering this train of thought, still running, while the buggy starts to peel out again...when I'm suddenly very glad I didn't stay in the tank.
The Greeks had it pretty good. When they were afraid that the gods had taken a dislike to them, they at least had the warning that the skies would grow dark and cloudy before vengeful thunderbolts started falling. A Greek could find cover before divine wrath brought him low. Not me. By now, I'm convinced that God hates me, and the final proof of this belief comes when, screaming right out of the clear blue sky, a piece of the moon the size of a Great Dane crashes right on top of my tank. There is a huge explosion...and whether from complete apoplectic rage, fear, or stress and overheating, I collapse on the sand.
...
When I come to, it's to the smell of some sort of chemical, the feeling of intense heat, and a bunch of orangey-red stuff in my field of view. I imagine that the training stage is over, and at long last, I've finally come to Hell proper.
"Aaaargh...damn...tank...meteors...now...stupid story...frickin' dune buggy." I'm not speaking too steady and my vision is blurred, too. The pile of red spins about, revealing itself to be hair on someone's head. I can't see too clear, but I don't think this is a guy. When a voice yells out to someone behind me, I know for certain it's a woman.
"McDougal! He's finally up!" There's a clattering of something being dropped. A dog barks.
"Francoise, for the last time, that joke isn't funny anymore. You know my name! You're as bad as your father." I see a blurry, impossibly large smile.
"You say that like it's so bad, Mc-Person." I don't notice the way she breaks it up when she says it. "Now get over here...this guy needs help." I slowly try to right myself, a hand on my throbbing head, as I see a big swatch of purple walk by. Must be the guy I saw in the buggy. No two people could have that hair, no matter how big this godforsaken planet is. As my eyes slowly come back into focus, I look around and see the buggy, confirming my suspicions. There's also a big hole in the ground, with a smoldering heap of metal that might have been the tank in an earlier life at the bottom of it; and a big tent that's closed off from my sight.
"Ugh." I turn back to my rescuers. "Who are you people?" I ask, while I take their appearances in. Purple-Hair...McDougal, McPersen...whoever the hell this guy is, is a thin guy dressed in khaki, with a pair of yellow Ray- Bans over his eyes. The scholarly look is offset by numerous piercings, the crazy hair, and a goatee. It's hard to say for sure, but he looks about Faye's age. Early-middle thirties. Looks like a hipster academic, or one of those professors you get at the Academy that teach the really wild courses and always wind up leaving before they get tenure, to go study semi-indigenous Native American cultures on Titan, or form a sitar/trip-hop band. One of those guys.
The girl is definitely younger than McPersen. Anywhere from 10-15 years younger. She's wearing goggles and a tanktop, spandex pants and no shoes. Another hippy, then. Her hair is wild, halfway to becoming dreadlocks from the look of it. At her feet is an old dog with a grey muzzle. She's very skinny, humming a strange little tune while punching in something on a handheld gizmo. "I am Francoise Appledelhi." She doesn't even turn to look at me. "This is McIntyre," she says, with a nonchalant wave at McPersen..which I realize must have been a nickname, "and this is Ein," she finishes, stooping to pick up the old dog. Rubbing it behind the ears, she cuddles the pooch, who yips happily. Something clicks in my mind, looking at this Ein. "We are map makers!" she almost shouts.
"Yeah," continues McIntyre. "Francoise's father started this gig about 13 years ago. We've been carrying on for him." He's crouched on the ground, fiddling with some wires. "Francoise, the satellite feed is all set up. It'll take a few hours to get this area rendered...do you want to make camp, or keep on until it gets dark?" Francoise squints over at me. I myself haven't taken my eyes off the dog.
"I think we'd better make sure this guy's OK before we do anything else. Better make the camp!" McIntyre just shrugs and heads into the tent. Francoise squats down and looks in my eyes. Very close. This girl has no concept of 'personal space.' "So, what's your name, mister?"
"Mendoza. Kurt Mendoza. I'm a reporter for Beat magazine. I was out here working on a story...but everything kinda just went to pot." Francoise nods thoughtfully as she reaches into her knapsack, pulling out a canteen which she hands to me.
"Yes. I know how that is. Ein and I had an experience with some mushrooms once..."
"No, no...not like that! I just mean, things kind of went haywire. You and McIntyre were the first people I've seen for weeks. When you guys were fixing to leave...I kind of freaked out."
"So that's why you made the explosions! Mc-Person thought you were maybe just crazy." All of a sudden, she slugs me in the shoulder. "Hey, don't go shooting around like that again! We're on important business with our cartographications, and the meteors make it hard enough to keep things accurate without crazy persons putting new holes of their own in!"
"Uh, sorry about that." I rub my shoulder. For such a twig of a girl, she hits really hard. "I don't think it'll happen again...what with the tank being trashed and all. Speaking of which...do you guys think you could give me a lift to the nearest settlement? I'm going to have to call my publisher...the comm was in the tank."
"We can most likely come to some sort of arrangement." She's smiling again. Whatever ire I'd incurred with my outburst had apparently been forgotten. "So, Mr. Kurt the Reporter...what is it you're working on out here?" I take one last drink, and hand the canteen back to her.
"Well, you might be able to help me there, too. I'm looking for someone with a dog just like yours...named Ein too. Not really a common name...so I thought maybe it was the same dog. How long ago did you pick it up...and from who, if you don't mind me asking?" I turn on my recorder...blessedly, it had been in my pocket when the tank blew.
"First of all, Mr. Reporter, Ein is a 'he,' not an 'it.' Second of all...I've had Ein for eleven years or more...I never got him from anyone. Sorry!" That huge grin again...what sort of person can have such big teeth? Another dead end. I click off my recorder, maybe a little too theatrically.
"Aww...what's wrong? Who are you looking for, anyway?" Back again, right in my face. Who raised this girl, wolves?
"Her name was Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV. I took someone at her word that Ed would be out here somewhere...but looks like she was wrong about that, too. Jesus! How many dogs named Ein can there be?" I have turned around in my frustration, kicking at some rocks, but I have to look back again when I hear the sound of crazy laughter from behind my back.
Francoise is on the ground, rolling with mirth and clutching her stomach to try (unsuccessfully) to hold it in. McIntyre must have heard the commotion, because he came out and asked in unison with me, "What's so funny?"
"Ha ha ha! Snff...sorry...sorry. I didn't know you didn't know. You see...Francoise IS Edward!"
McIntyre shrugged. "Oh. That again. Yeah, I knew. I'll be back in the tent, Francoise." And with that, he exits once more, leaving me alone with the mythical Radical Edward.
...
It takes a little while after that to iron out the confusion, but soon enough, we are in the tent, sitting cross-legged around a lantern while McIntyre cooks something in an adjoining 'room'.
"Okay...so let me get this straight. You've been wandering for how long?"
"About ten years." She takes a big bite out of some fruit. With her mouth full, she continues. "I mean, once I finally caught up with Papa, there was maybe another nine between then and now. I don't really think of it as wandering...I was home wherever I went."
"Faye wrote once that you were always like that." She perks at the mention.
"You know Faye-Faye?" Her eyes go wide with surprise.
"Not really. I read her book, then I interviewed her once. She told me where I might find you, though." So...you've kept quiet...real quiet all these years...are you positive you're okay with me interviewing you?" Ed just shrugs. I get the impression that between her and McIntyre, the map- making business is a very indifferent gig.
"It's all the same to Francoise. I've been following up on Faye and Jet...I know what's going on. I don't really need money or anything, so it's nothing if I talk or not. But, hey, you've come all the way out here, and your tank got all blowed up...you could use a break. Go ahead, I minds it not!" She laughs. The weird grammar is singsongy...it doesn't seem serious at all. I am starting to see where Faye had come from with her bizarre stories of Ed in the memoir. If she was like this now...I can only imagine what she was like before maturity set in. If this is maturity, that is.
"Well, let's get back into it." The recorder is back on. "It's been established that you left the Bebop with your father..." She shook her head.
"No, following after him. It took a year to catch up. After that, I made sure Ein was always in the buggy, and that I was right with Papa in case he forgot about me again." She says it nonchalantly. I can't believe the fact that her father would forget her doesn't bother her, and I tell her so. She still doesn't seem upset.
"Not anymore. There was a time, back when I was about 16, that I resented being left behind all those years. That and some other stuff. But teenagers have those sort of issues, y'dig? He was absent-minded...wrapped up in his dream. Even when I was little, after the Bebop, I kind of knew he needed my help, otherwise who knows what he'd forget next?" McIntyre comes in with a tray of food, which he places in front of the girl and myself.
"One time old Appledelhi forgot me in the middle of the Malaysian rainforest. Took Francoise and him three weeks to find me."
"Jesus! Were you alright?"
"Eh. It was an adventure. I told him beforehand that there was no real need to map the craters in the jungle, but the old guy couldn't be diverted. You know, he never did remember what my real name was." He tousles Ed's hair. "She picked up that bad habit from him."
"Scram, McGillicutty." She sticks her tongue out at him as he leaves again, then laughs and returns to the conversation, putting old Ein on her lap.
"So...what's the story with you and McIntyre? Are you two together?" The age gap isn't too extreme, though it is somewhat weird. I have trouble picturing it, in all honesty. Ed just bursts out laughing again, rolling on the poor dog, who yips pitifully.
"No, no, no. We're just friends. My Papa was sort of a absentee father- figure to both of us, so even though he could be a complete, total, utter, inexorable, magnamistochistical pain in the gluteus maximus...we both stuck around after he died. To try and finish what he started."
"How did Appledelhi die, may I ask?"
"It was about three years ago. Heart attack." She is practically unconcerned, scratching Ein's belly. "You can't eat as many eggs as Papa did and not expect to have problems with cholesterol."
"Oh. Okay then...how's Ein been doing? He's getting up there in years, even if you assume he was only one or two when Spike found him."
"Ein is good. He isn't as fast as he used to be, and he can't hack like he used to..." What the hell does that mean? "..but he's okay. Just getting older. Like all of us. I don't know if the constant moving about is good for him anymore, though." She looks a little worried, almost maternal. "Why do you ask, anyway?"
"Hey, you'd be surprised what kind of things fascinate the neo-hunter types. Ein stuff is practically a cottage industry. A photo of him alone would probably net some huge woolongs on an auction. People are weird." I crack my knuckles. "So, can we talk about the Bebop for a bit?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Reporter!"
"Well, I figure if you've been following up on Faye and Jet, you must know about Spike..."
Her eyes get really big all of a sudden. "No, what about Spike?" Oh, Christ, don't make me be the one who has to break the news to her. That was not what I had in mind when I signed on for this beat...
But, just as quick, she's back to normal. "Just kidding. I heard. You couldn't go online for awhile without hitting a banner for that book on every other page."
"You know, you are a very cruel young lady..."
"You're telling me!" hollers McIntyre from the other room. Strains of guitar cords are being picked here and there from his direction, but I can't tell if it's him playing or a recording. The man is such a hippy.
"Anyway...about Spike..." I snap back to attention.
"Yes! Sorry...what was your reaction to his death?" She looks annoyed.
"Well, Mr. Reporter, naturally, Me and McPerson threw a party with Papa. We had Ein come out of the cake for the celebration. What do you think happened?" She sighs. "I was sad, obviously. I left the Bebop to look after Papa, but that didn't mean I cared for Spike and the rest any less than before. It felt like a good time to go. You know how you can see a storm coming ahead of time? It was like that, towards the end on the Bebop. The way things worked out with the Vincent incident...Spike wasn't really the same afterward. Faye had left...I could tell things were going to end...and I didn't want to be left behind by them as well."
"So you left them instead? That sounds a lot like Faye, from what I've heard..."
"Hey, what are you going to do? She was pretty much my only female role model my entire life, unless you count the nuns. It's inevitable there'll be some similarities, y'know." She shrugs. Again. "It wasn't malicious, me leaving the crew. I'm just saying, even though I probably couldn't have explained it then, I think it's why I went away. That and the thing with my papa." She runs a hand through her almost-dreads. "Really, when I found out about Spike, it wasn't until after Faye's book went out. By then, I was in the bad teenage funky years, and at that point, it was another thing to hold against the old man. You know, 'if I had stayed back there, I would have been happy, I could have changed the way things went down'...that kind of stupid teenage bullshit. It's just sad, now."
"Well, there is one thing more about Spike I was wondering. Ever since the book came out, and people started getting into it, there've been rumors. With the absence of a body, some people like to believe that Spike Spiegel is still alive. Do you have any insight to add to that debate?"
Now, she is just looking sad. Deeply, genuinely so. "None whatsoever."
"Because, Faye seems to think he would have tried to reach one of you...are you certain?"
"Look, Mr. Reporter..." she snaps, and I jump back, startled. "I know the map thing keeps me busy...but there still isn't anyone who's as connected as I am. If Spike was still out there...I'd know it. He'd have to have a backup identity if he wasn't going as Spike Spiegel anymore, and no one who fits the description...and isn't some wannabe," she's still glaring at me, "has turned up that fits. There'd be financial records, there'd be obvious signs of tampering with records...there'd be some way to know for sure. Man, I wish he was still alive...but there's not a lot of evidence, you know? Just a Spike-shaped hole where a body's supposed to be. I don't think that's enough for me to get my hopes up over anymore. I did enough of that back when I was still mad at Papa. No, he's gone, and I just miss him. I miss all of them."
"Well, why don't you contact Jet or Faye? They're not dead, either. I mean, I know you send them messages...but they gotta miss you, too. That wasn't false affection in Faye's book, and I bet Jet probably spent more time with you than anyone. Why don't you get a hold of them? Especially when the alternative is so..." I reach for the right word, something to describe this insane mapmaking project. "...so futile?"
"It's just the way things are. I promised Papa. I'll keep my word."
"Why?" My objectivity is beginning to unravel. "He never kept any promises for you!"
"No, but then, he never promised me anything." She stands up. "I think we're finishing up here."
"Alright...whatever." I exhale deeply. The logic Francoise works with is so foreign to me that I can't begin to try and understand...and if what's been written is true, there's no indication it's ever been otherwise. It's just frustrating. It seems like Faye and Francoise would be happier if they could all be together again...and God only knows how Jet's turned out. It's strange how the story can switch from pure ridiculousness to this kind of melodrama...
I'll stop now...before my credibility as an unbiased journalist gets ripped to shreds. Not that it's ever been easy to keep from connecting with these people for anyone covering their stories. I get up to leave. "Look, can I use your comm, so I can call my bosses and get out of here?"
"Sure. McIntyre can help you with that." She's just holding Ein really tight. I can't be too sure, it's so dim, but it looks like she's about to cry.
I open the flap and go in the next room. McIntyre looks like he's heard it all. For once, he doesn't look detached or wry, though I'm not sure he knows exactly how he feels, either. His face is very hard to read. He reaches behind the guitar case (it had been him playing after all), and pulls out a little comm unit.
"Here. Don't worry about Francoise...I'll make sure she's alright." I dial the number and make the call, explaining the circumstances of the tank mishap, but counterbalancing it with the fact that I did manage to find Radical Edward, sort of. My editor arranges to have a lander sent to my coordinates. It'll only be a few minutes before I'm finally off this rock! I put the comm by McIntyre's case, and then exit the tent. I think I'll spend the last few minutes I have left on Earth outside.
A few long minutes go by before I spot the ship sent to pick me up. Just as the lander is descending, Francoise comes back outside. She doesn't look me in the eyes, and keeps a few steps away this time.
"I'm sorry about that, back there." This time, I'm the one who's shrugging my indifference.
"Don't be. It was my fault. Shouldn't have argued with you like that." The winds from the ship's engines are beginning to pick up the sand around us...it's not a comfortable place to be.
"Well, whatever you say, Mr. Reporter. Are you still going after Jet?"
"He's the last piece of the puzzle. Gotta do it somehow." I'm almost shouting now, over the sound of the ship. Neither of us have made eye contact.
"Here. This will help you find him." She gives me a slip of paper. I see some writing...looks like an address on Ganymede. "I told you I was following up on him!" The roar is deafening. "One last thing!" She goes back inside the tent, and just as quickly, comes out carrying a box. "Give him this, when you see him!"
I have only a moment to thank her for her help before I have to get on the plane. If I notice anything about the box, I ignore it in my hurry to escape from planet Earth. Collapsing in my seat, watching her wave as the ship takes off...I finally inspect the parcel I've been charged with.
The box is whining. "What the hell?" I open it up, there is nothing sealing it from me doing so, so I assume she wants me to look inside.
The flaps open, and there's a grey muzzle looking out at me. Ein. Just like that, I've got a traveling companion. I'm a guy who's never been able to keep a houseplant alive, and Francoise wants me to take care of an old dog until I see Jet? Jesus Christ. Rather than heading back to the press office on Mars, I ask the captain whether it's possible for us to head straight for Ganymede instead.
What do you feed a Welsh Corgi, anyway?
I'm sure when I look back on this in the future, nothing in my experience will so remind me of Hell as the two months I spent on Earth.
Things might be different on other parts of the planet, true. There might be places where the air is cool and moist, where the mercury stays somewhere below 95 degrees. Maybe even places where space junk and bits of the moon don't rain down like intergalactic cruise missiles. But if there are, I don't spend any time in those parts of Earth while I'm there. Instead I'm combing the Southwest, which is blazingly hot and a visual dumpster. I've read that there used to be impressive natural monuments throughout this area, but all there is now is craters and sand. It is miserable, and so am I.
To get around, and to prevent any accidental damage by stray meteors, the magazine forces me to drive around in an ancient 1990's model tank, reassuring me that it is the only thing that could possibly withstand impact by a rock from space. I don't particularly believe that's true...some of the moon chunks are very large from what I've heard, and I don't think the tank is enough to keep me alive if a big one hits. I'm lucky, in as far as I only have a few close calls, but no actual impacts...though the effect these have on my mood is not beneficial. The mission is beginning to feel suicidal. Another added bonus of using the tank is the way the people I meet react to it. You'd be surprised how few people want to stick around long enough to see if you're carrying any live armament in such a vehicle. I have almost no luck getting leads in finding "Ed." Only Faye's insistence that she is there, and that this mysterious hacker is my only hope of tracking down Jet Black, keeps me keeping on.
I note, with a degree of irony, that this is part of the area where the original cowboys used to roam, back in the late 1800s. I don't feel particularly adventuresome anymore, and I feel even less inspired. In the month and a half I've been combing these deserts, asking anyone foolish enough to both be above ground and willing to talk to a stranger in a tank, I turn up absolutely nothing. And of course, there's no "Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV" in any directory I can get my hands on. It's turning into a complete wash, and in a fit of despair, I'm halfway to calling the editor-in-chief to abort the feature, when I notice a glint in the horizon.
There's something out there. I open the hatch and stand out there screaming and waving my arms, but there's no response. I can't tell for sure if it's another tank or just a truck, or something completely unique; but I can see for certain that at the rate it's moving, it'll be long gone if I don't do something fast.
I put the tank in gear. By dint of it's extremely advanced age, it's incapable of anything other than a leisurely pace. The whatever it is keeps getting smaller on the edge of the sky. Gears jam and grind as I plead with the prehistoric contraption to just go faster...but the other vehicle slips out of sight.
This is the final straw. Half-mad with rage, I bring the huge central gun to bear. The tank was indeed armed...the magazine was worried about raiders, but I never have any occasion to use it except out of sheer frustration. Aiming for a spot about a quarter-mile away, I let the three shells that came with the tank go. The fact that something in the goddamn machine works like it's supposed to is heartening, and the explosions are cathartic, needless to say.
On the other hand, once the boom of the shells fades...I come to realize that I'm now half-stranded in a rusted pile of junk, unarmed, and charged with a task that I seem destined not to complete. This is not the way I imagined it would be back at the Martian Arts Academy. I start dialing the number for the magazine again...when all of a sudden, the strange vehicle reappears on the horizon, heading straight for me.
"Oh, shit. Raiders. This is it." I now know that there is no hope in getting out of here alive. There's no point in waiting in that miserable pile any longer, either. They will get me eventually. I open the hatch up again, and climb out. Naked to the sky, I half expect a satellite to crash down and hit me before the raiders come. It's been that bad of a month.
The vehicle is a huge, rusty brown machine the likes of which I've not seen before. It really isn't any sort of truck or tank, though it is about the size of the old monster I've been living in. I guess the best way to describe it is as some sort of uber dune buggy. I know I'm going to die, and have resigned myself to it, when once again, the buggy surprises me.
It is making a beeline for me, but, when there was only a few hundred feet between us...it swerves abruptly, and heads for the craters of my tantrum. I stare, slack-jawed...now cheated of death by misadventure (literally), and not even feeling good about that. A second later, I realize they must not be raiders, and start running after the buggy, waving my arms and screaming at the top of my lungs. "Hey! Wait up! Goddamn it, you bastards, stop!!!" If they notice me, there's nothing to indicate it to me. The buggy stops at the craters...a man jumps out. I notice that he has purple hair, but can't see anything else from this range. He doesn't seem to notice me, either. Purple-hair shouts something to the driver, and climbs back in, apparently about to take off again.
About to be abandoned once more, and not even certain why I pinned so much emotional significance on contact with the buggy, I start to wish I'd taken the tank, even if it would have taken just as long to start it up again. I'm considering this train of thought, still running, while the buggy starts to peel out again...when I'm suddenly very glad I didn't stay in the tank.
The Greeks had it pretty good. When they were afraid that the gods had taken a dislike to them, they at least had the warning that the skies would grow dark and cloudy before vengeful thunderbolts started falling. A Greek could find cover before divine wrath brought him low. Not me. By now, I'm convinced that God hates me, and the final proof of this belief comes when, screaming right out of the clear blue sky, a piece of the moon the size of a Great Dane crashes right on top of my tank. There is a huge explosion...and whether from complete apoplectic rage, fear, or stress and overheating, I collapse on the sand.
...
When I come to, it's to the smell of some sort of chemical, the feeling of intense heat, and a bunch of orangey-red stuff in my field of view. I imagine that the training stage is over, and at long last, I've finally come to Hell proper.
"Aaaargh...damn...tank...meteors...now...stupid story...frickin' dune buggy." I'm not speaking too steady and my vision is blurred, too. The pile of red spins about, revealing itself to be hair on someone's head. I can't see too clear, but I don't think this is a guy. When a voice yells out to someone behind me, I know for certain it's a woman.
"McDougal! He's finally up!" There's a clattering of something being dropped. A dog barks.
"Francoise, for the last time, that joke isn't funny anymore. You know my name! You're as bad as your father." I see a blurry, impossibly large smile.
"You say that like it's so bad, Mc-Person." I don't notice the way she breaks it up when she says it. "Now get over here...this guy needs help." I slowly try to right myself, a hand on my throbbing head, as I see a big swatch of purple walk by. Must be the guy I saw in the buggy. No two people could have that hair, no matter how big this godforsaken planet is. As my eyes slowly come back into focus, I look around and see the buggy, confirming my suspicions. There's also a big hole in the ground, with a smoldering heap of metal that might have been the tank in an earlier life at the bottom of it; and a big tent that's closed off from my sight.
"Ugh." I turn back to my rescuers. "Who are you people?" I ask, while I take their appearances in. Purple-Hair...McDougal, McPersen...whoever the hell this guy is, is a thin guy dressed in khaki, with a pair of yellow Ray- Bans over his eyes. The scholarly look is offset by numerous piercings, the crazy hair, and a goatee. It's hard to say for sure, but he looks about Faye's age. Early-middle thirties. Looks like a hipster academic, or one of those professors you get at the Academy that teach the really wild courses and always wind up leaving before they get tenure, to go study semi-indigenous Native American cultures on Titan, or form a sitar/trip-hop band. One of those guys.
The girl is definitely younger than McPersen. Anywhere from 10-15 years younger. She's wearing goggles and a tanktop, spandex pants and no shoes. Another hippy, then. Her hair is wild, halfway to becoming dreadlocks from the look of it. At her feet is an old dog with a grey muzzle. She's very skinny, humming a strange little tune while punching in something on a handheld gizmo. "I am Francoise Appledelhi." She doesn't even turn to look at me. "This is McIntyre," she says, with a nonchalant wave at McPersen..which I realize must have been a nickname, "and this is Ein," she finishes, stooping to pick up the old dog. Rubbing it behind the ears, she cuddles the pooch, who yips happily. Something clicks in my mind, looking at this Ein. "We are map makers!" she almost shouts.
"Yeah," continues McIntyre. "Francoise's father started this gig about 13 years ago. We've been carrying on for him." He's crouched on the ground, fiddling with some wires. "Francoise, the satellite feed is all set up. It'll take a few hours to get this area rendered...do you want to make camp, or keep on until it gets dark?" Francoise squints over at me. I myself haven't taken my eyes off the dog.
"I think we'd better make sure this guy's OK before we do anything else. Better make the camp!" McIntyre just shrugs and heads into the tent. Francoise squats down and looks in my eyes. Very close. This girl has no concept of 'personal space.' "So, what's your name, mister?"
"Mendoza. Kurt Mendoza. I'm a reporter for Beat magazine. I was out here working on a story...but everything kinda just went to pot." Francoise nods thoughtfully as she reaches into her knapsack, pulling out a canteen which she hands to me.
"Yes. I know how that is. Ein and I had an experience with some mushrooms once..."
"No, no...not like that! I just mean, things kind of went haywire. You and McIntyre were the first people I've seen for weeks. When you guys were fixing to leave...I kind of freaked out."
"So that's why you made the explosions! Mc-Person thought you were maybe just crazy." All of a sudden, she slugs me in the shoulder. "Hey, don't go shooting around like that again! We're on important business with our cartographications, and the meteors make it hard enough to keep things accurate without crazy persons putting new holes of their own in!"
"Uh, sorry about that." I rub my shoulder. For such a twig of a girl, she hits really hard. "I don't think it'll happen again...what with the tank being trashed and all. Speaking of which...do you guys think you could give me a lift to the nearest settlement? I'm going to have to call my publisher...the comm was in the tank."
"We can most likely come to some sort of arrangement." She's smiling again. Whatever ire I'd incurred with my outburst had apparently been forgotten. "So, Mr. Kurt the Reporter...what is it you're working on out here?" I take one last drink, and hand the canteen back to her.
"Well, you might be able to help me there, too. I'm looking for someone with a dog just like yours...named Ein too. Not really a common name...so I thought maybe it was the same dog. How long ago did you pick it up...and from who, if you don't mind me asking?" I turn on my recorder...blessedly, it had been in my pocket when the tank blew.
"First of all, Mr. Reporter, Ein is a 'he,' not an 'it.' Second of all...I've had Ein for eleven years or more...I never got him from anyone. Sorry!" That huge grin again...what sort of person can have such big teeth? Another dead end. I click off my recorder, maybe a little too theatrically.
"Aww...what's wrong? Who are you looking for, anyway?" Back again, right in my face. Who raised this girl, wolves?
"Her name was Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV. I took someone at her word that Ed would be out here somewhere...but looks like she was wrong about that, too. Jesus! How many dogs named Ein can there be?" I have turned around in my frustration, kicking at some rocks, but I have to look back again when I hear the sound of crazy laughter from behind my back.
Francoise is on the ground, rolling with mirth and clutching her stomach to try (unsuccessfully) to hold it in. McIntyre must have heard the commotion, because he came out and asked in unison with me, "What's so funny?"
"Ha ha ha! Snff...sorry...sorry. I didn't know you didn't know. You see...Francoise IS Edward!"
McIntyre shrugged. "Oh. That again. Yeah, I knew. I'll be back in the tent, Francoise." And with that, he exits once more, leaving me alone with the mythical Radical Edward.
...
It takes a little while after that to iron out the confusion, but soon enough, we are in the tent, sitting cross-legged around a lantern while McIntyre cooks something in an adjoining 'room'.
"Okay...so let me get this straight. You've been wandering for how long?"
"About ten years." She takes a big bite out of some fruit. With her mouth full, she continues. "I mean, once I finally caught up with Papa, there was maybe another nine between then and now. I don't really think of it as wandering...I was home wherever I went."
"Faye wrote once that you were always like that." She perks at the mention.
"You know Faye-Faye?" Her eyes go wide with surprise.
"Not really. I read her book, then I interviewed her once. She told me where I might find you, though." So...you've kept quiet...real quiet all these years...are you positive you're okay with me interviewing you?" Ed just shrugs. I get the impression that between her and McIntyre, the map- making business is a very indifferent gig.
"It's all the same to Francoise. I've been following up on Faye and Jet...I know what's going on. I don't really need money or anything, so it's nothing if I talk or not. But, hey, you've come all the way out here, and your tank got all blowed up...you could use a break. Go ahead, I minds it not!" She laughs. The weird grammar is singsongy...it doesn't seem serious at all. I am starting to see where Faye had come from with her bizarre stories of Ed in the memoir. If she was like this now...I can only imagine what she was like before maturity set in. If this is maturity, that is.
"Well, let's get back into it." The recorder is back on. "It's been established that you left the Bebop with your father..." She shook her head.
"No, following after him. It took a year to catch up. After that, I made sure Ein was always in the buggy, and that I was right with Papa in case he forgot about me again." She says it nonchalantly. I can't believe the fact that her father would forget her doesn't bother her, and I tell her so. She still doesn't seem upset.
"Not anymore. There was a time, back when I was about 16, that I resented being left behind all those years. That and some other stuff. But teenagers have those sort of issues, y'dig? He was absent-minded...wrapped up in his dream. Even when I was little, after the Bebop, I kind of knew he needed my help, otherwise who knows what he'd forget next?" McIntyre comes in with a tray of food, which he places in front of the girl and myself.
"One time old Appledelhi forgot me in the middle of the Malaysian rainforest. Took Francoise and him three weeks to find me."
"Jesus! Were you alright?"
"Eh. It was an adventure. I told him beforehand that there was no real need to map the craters in the jungle, but the old guy couldn't be diverted. You know, he never did remember what my real name was." He tousles Ed's hair. "She picked up that bad habit from him."
"Scram, McGillicutty." She sticks her tongue out at him as he leaves again, then laughs and returns to the conversation, putting old Ein on her lap.
"So...what's the story with you and McIntyre? Are you two together?" The age gap isn't too extreme, though it is somewhat weird. I have trouble picturing it, in all honesty. Ed just bursts out laughing again, rolling on the poor dog, who yips pitifully.
"No, no, no. We're just friends. My Papa was sort of a absentee father- figure to both of us, so even though he could be a complete, total, utter, inexorable, magnamistochistical pain in the gluteus maximus...we both stuck around after he died. To try and finish what he started."
"How did Appledelhi die, may I ask?"
"It was about three years ago. Heart attack." She is practically unconcerned, scratching Ein's belly. "You can't eat as many eggs as Papa did and not expect to have problems with cholesterol."
"Oh. Okay then...how's Ein been doing? He's getting up there in years, even if you assume he was only one or two when Spike found him."
"Ein is good. He isn't as fast as he used to be, and he can't hack like he used to..." What the hell does that mean? "..but he's okay. Just getting older. Like all of us. I don't know if the constant moving about is good for him anymore, though." She looks a little worried, almost maternal. "Why do you ask, anyway?"
"Hey, you'd be surprised what kind of things fascinate the neo-hunter types. Ein stuff is practically a cottage industry. A photo of him alone would probably net some huge woolongs on an auction. People are weird." I crack my knuckles. "So, can we talk about the Bebop for a bit?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Reporter!"
"Well, I figure if you've been following up on Faye and Jet, you must know about Spike..."
Her eyes get really big all of a sudden. "No, what about Spike?" Oh, Christ, don't make me be the one who has to break the news to her. That was not what I had in mind when I signed on for this beat...
But, just as quick, she's back to normal. "Just kidding. I heard. You couldn't go online for awhile without hitting a banner for that book on every other page."
"You know, you are a very cruel young lady..."
"You're telling me!" hollers McIntyre from the other room. Strains of guitar cords are being picked here and there from his direction, but I can't tell if it's him playing or a recording. The man is such a hippy.
"Anyway...about Spike..." I snap back to attention.
"Yes! Sorry...what was your reaction to his death?" She looks annoyed.
"Well, Mr. Reporter, naturally, Me and McPerson threw a party with Papa. We had Ein come out of the cake for the celebration. What do you think happened?" She sighs. "I was sad, obviously. I left the Bebop to look after Papa, but that didn't mean I cared for Spike and the rest any less than before. It felt like a good time to go. You know how you can see a storm coming ahead of time? It was like that, towards the end on the Bebop. The way things worked out with the Vincent incident...Spike wasn't really the same afterward. Faye had left...I could tell things were going to end...and I didn't want to be left behind by them as well."
"So you left them instead? That sounds a lot like Faye, from what I've heard..."
"Hey, what are you going to do? She was pretty much my only female role model my entire life, unless you count the nuns. It's inevitable there'll be some similarities, y'know." She shrugs. Again. "It wasn't malicious, me leaving the crew. I'm just saying, even though I probably couldn't have explained it then, I think it's why I went away. That and the thing with my papa." She runs a hand through her almost-dreads. "Really, when I found out about Spike, it wasn't until after Faye's book went out. By then, I was in the bad teenage funky years, and at that point, it was another thing to hold against the old man. You know, 'if I had stayed back there, I would have been happy, I could have changed the way things went down'...that kind of stupid teenage bullshit. It's just sad, now."
"Well, there is one thing more about Spike I was wondering. Ever since the book came out, and people started getting into it, there've been rumors. With the absence of a body, some people like to believe that Spike Spiegel is still alive. Do you have any insight to add to that debate?"
Now, she is just looking sad. Deeply, genuinely so. "None whatsoever."
"Because, Faye seems to think he would have tried to reach one of you...are you certain?"
"Look, Mr. Reporter..." she snaps, and I jump back, startled. "I know the map thing keeps me busy...but there still isn't anyone who's as connected as I am. If Spike was still out there...I'd know it. He'd have to have a backup identity if he wasn't going as Spike Spiegel anymore, and no one who fits the description...and isn't some wannabe," she's still glaring at me, "has turned up that fits. There'd be financial records, there'd be obvious signs of tampering with records...there'd be some way to know for sure. Man, I wish he was still alive...but there's not a lot of evidence, you know? Just a Spike-shaped hole where a body's supposed to be. I don't think that's enough for me to get my hopes up over anymore. I did enough of that back when I was still mad at Papa. No, he's gone, and I just miss him. I miss all of them."
"Well, why don't you contact Jet or Faye? They're not dead, either. I mean, I know you send them messages...but they gotta miss you, too. That wasn't false affection in Faye's book, and I bet Jet probably spent more time with you than anyone. Why don't you get a hold of them? Especially when the alternative is so..." I reach for the right word, something to describe this insane mapmaking project. "...so futile?"
"It's just the way things are. I promised Papa. I'll keep my word."
"Why?" My objectivity is beginning to unravel. "He never kept any promises for you!"
"No, but then, he never promised me anything." She stands up. "I think we're finishing up here."
"Alright...whatever." I exhale deeply. The logic Francoise works with is so foreign to me that I can't begin to try and understand...and if what's been written is true, there's no indication it's ever been otherwise. It's just frustrating. It seems like Faye and Francoise would be happier if they could all be together again...and God only knows how Jet's turned out. It's strange how the story can switch from pure ridiculousness to this kind of melodrama...
I'll stop now...before my credibility as an unbiased journalist gets ripped to shreds. Not that it's ever been easy to keep from connecting with these people for anyone covering their stories. I get up to leave. "Look, can I use your comm, so I can call my bosses and get out of here?"
"Sure. McIntyre can help you with that." She's just holding Ein really tight. I can't be too sure, it's so dim, but it looks like she's about to cry.
I open the flap and go in the next room. McIntyre looks like he's heard it all. For once, he doesn't look detached or wry, though I'm not sure he knows exactly how he feels, either. His face is very hard to read. He reaches behind the guitar case (it had been him playing after all), and pulls out a little comm unit.
"Here. Don't worry about Francoise...I'll make sure she's alright." I dial the number and make the call, explaining the circumstances of the tank mishap, but counterbalancing it with the fact that I did manage to find Radical Edward, sort of. My editor arranges to have a lander sent to my coordinates. It'll only be a few minutes before I'm finally off this rock! I put the comm by McIntyre's case, and then exit the tent. I think I'll spend the last few minutes I have left on Earth outside.
A few long minutes go by before I spot the ship sent to pick me up. Just as the lander is descending, Francoise comes back outside. She doesn't look me in the eyes, and keeps a few steps away this time.
"I'm sorry about that, back there." This time, I'm the one who's shrugging my indifference.
"Don't be. It was my fault. Shouldn't have argued with you like that." The winds from the ship's engines are beginning to pick up the sand around us...it's not a comfortable place to be.
"Well, whatever you say, Mr. Reporter. Are you still going after Jet?"
"He's the last piece of the puzzle. Gotta do it somehow." I'm almost shouting now, over the sound of the ship. Neither of us have made eye contact.
"Here. This will help you find him." She gives me a slip of paper. I see some writing...looks like an address on Ganymede. "I told you I was following up on him!" The roar is deafening. "One last thing!" She goes back inside the tent, and just as quickly, comes out carrying a box. "Give him this, when you see him!"
I have only a moment to thank her for her help before I have to get on the plane. If I notice anything about the box, I ignore it in my hurry to escape from planet Earth. Collapsing in my seat, watching her wave as the ship takes off...I finally inspect the parcel I've been charged with.
The box is whining. "What the hell?" I open it up, there is nothing sealing it from me doing so, so I assume she wants me to look inside.
The flaps open, and there's a grey muzzle looking out at me. Ein. Just like that, I've got a traveling companion. I'm a guy who's never been able to keep a houseplant alive, and Francoise wants me to take care of an old dog until I see Jet? Jesus Christ. Rather than heading back to the press office on Mars, I ask the captain whether it's possible for us to head straight for Ganymede instead.
What do you feed a Welsh Corgi, anyway?