...whatthefuck...whatthefuck...whathefuck...What the fuck... WHY?! Sofuckedup sofuckedup sofuckedup... I don't get it... I want to serve. I want to serve, yes, I do. Really! I do. But sofuckedup sofuckedup... Why am I here? Where am I? ...oh, shuttle. I'm on the shuttle... I can kill myself. I should kill myself. Where the fuck is my blaster...
...Oh, Carla. I'm so sorry. Sorry, so sorry, sorry. Oh, fuck... Mike, why did you leave me here? Did you take my goddamned blaster? You bastard. I need help. Where the fuck are you? I'm so fucking alone...
At least he left me with this booze... What is this shit? Fucking hell, it's some serious shit. Whatever. I want more... So fucked.
WHY! WHY! WHY! I'm fighting for the Powaah! I'm fighting for the Powaah! I'm fighting... fuckthatfuckthatfuckthat. I'm sorry Carla! I'm so sorry! Oh, shitshitshit, this is what I've become. I can't leave them. Shit, I'm going to throw up...
...Hrrrrrruuuuuhhhh...
Hrrrrruuuuuuuuhhhhhh!! I don't deserve help. I'm shit... I'm nothing. Fuck! Help me! Help me! Oh, fuck! I'm sorry, Carla! I'm sorry Greido! I want to bring you back! But I have to do what they say... They say I'll be saved, right? The Powaah will save me. I need to follow the Powaah. Louke knows. Louke knows best. He's a hero! He's a Jedi! They all know more than me. Oh, Leah... Help me! I'm sorry, Carla. I'm so sorry...Shit...
It's all... itsallfuckedup...
itsallfuckedup,
izzzallllllfuck...
izzzzuuhh... uuuuuuuughhhh..................
The shrieking wail of the shuttle's proximity alarm tore me out of the soft, comforting nothingness of oblivion – and into the agonizing harshness of consciousness, not to mention a damned fucking brutal hangover that felt like a family of rancors had taken up residence in my skull and were happily trampolining on my hypothalamus. Painfully opening my sandpaper eyelids, I panicked as I slapped off the alarm and realized from the blurry spinning that the shuttle had somehow lost its navigational stabilizers and was drifting erratically in space.
Shit! Now I had to regain control of this stupid craft. Where were the thruster controls again... Oh, wait. The spinning was in my head. I calmed down, but regretted that almost instantly, as the adrenaline had somewhat abated my nausea; with the panic receding, I promptly threw up on the floor. There wasn't much point in looking for a barfbag, since, judging from chunks of vomit glistening with bile and liberally spread all over the cockpit, it wasn't the first time I'd thrown up.
What the hell happened? It was painful to form anything remotely coherent in my mind, so it took some time to establish that nothing was amiss with the shuttle, and that the alarm had been a pre-programmed notice (probably Mike's doing) that I was going to arrive to my destination in fifty-eight minutes. Ok. Plenty of time to get myself together. Thinkthinkthink. Ok, basic animal needs first: water. I need water. In the toilet. Go to the toilet. I can do this. Taking a deep breath, and simultaneously realizing how rancid the air was, I swallowed down another urge to retch, and fled to the shuttle's toilet, slapping on the ventilator as I left my sticky, foetid chair.
I chugged down two bottles of water from the stores, realizing too late that I drank too much too quickly, and hurled it up again with my head hanging limply over the sink. At least, this time it wasn't on floor or – aw, crap – over my clothes. Realizing I was covered in crusty patches of upchuck, I grabbed a wad of tissues and did my best to get the worst of it off my flight suit. Most of it came of easily, but I knew if I didn't get it off fast enough, there would not only be an obvious stain, but a smell that would linger for a long time.
Though I tried to deny it to myself, I remembered everything leading up to the shuttle far too vividly – but I still didn't know what to make of it. Horror and anger welled in me, but, with my body spent and wasted (like my fucking life), they both fizzled out into powerless apathy. Ah, how I was grateful for the many self-repressing and sense-dulling benefits of substance abuse! It was with considerable happiness when, still in the throes of shock and incomprehension, I had found the flask of booze that Mike had left in my jacket pocket.
The stuff was a kind of vile, mucousy syrup that left a lingering flavor of charred ass on my tongue. It was probably something you were supposed to add to something else and dilute it and make it last for several sessions; but, once I started to feel my pain and thoughts fuzz out, I downed it all in one gagging go. While the taste never improved, I can guarantee you that my blitzed out state got more blitzed out.
Ah, fuck. I lurched out of the tiny toilet, and slinked back into the cockpit, avoiding the puddles of bodily-fluids as best I could. Should I even continue with this mission? Fucking hell, I didn't feel as if I knew anything more. Where would I go? What would I do? There was nothing else. I'd be lost and empty yet again. I rubbed my temples gingerly, my face still tender and swollen from screaming bawling like fucking baby. It didn't make any sense. Carla, oh man... little Carla. What happened? How could it be? What am I? What kind of person am I? I tried to steady myself by gripping the water bottle tighter, but I could feel a pathetic crying fit coming on again. My hungover mind was buckling under the strain, vainly forming some semblance of rational thought, but anything I might have come up with of was dashed by,
“BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!”
FUCK! Goddamn it! Fucking proximity alarm! Alright! Alright! I got it! I slapped blindly on the dashboard until I found the blinking panel that controlled the shuttle's flight-plan. Damn it. I was less than twenty minutes to arrival now. Looking out the window, an orangish swirly-patterned planet loomed ahead growing ever larger, as the shuttle approached and aimed itself towards the gas giant's southern hemisphere. Feeling confused, as the planet lacked the usual constellation of blinking lights and swarming spacecraft that indicated habitation, I then hazily remembered from the mission-log (I'd only excitedly skimmed) that my first stop was a remote mining colony. In fact, with the cloudy details of the planet becoming clearer, I could see the dark, smudgy outlines of the sprawling installation floating at the edge of the planet's atmosphere not unlike an enormous metallic, smoking jelly-fish.
Ok. Ok, fine. I'll go through with it. Resisting the urge to turn the shuttle around and fuck off, I decided I might as well finish the mission, as, at the very least, it would give me some time to sort through the mess in my head. I took the controls back from the autopilot, and plotted as tight a path as possible to the colony; the sooner this was over with the better. The signal I sent to the flight tower announcing myself was promptly replied with pre-recorded docking instructions indicating the landing bay I should go to. I had a deep sense of relief at not having to deal with an actual person; hopefully, once I landed and got rid of my shipment, everything would be automated too.
As I flew in closer and the clouds of noxious gases parted, the mining colony revealed itself to be the typical slap-dash mix of refineries, smoke-stacks and messy snarls of metal tubing and container-towers. These colonies were purely functional places with no consideration for any niceties – focused, as they were, on extracting as many resources as they could, as quickly as they could. They were typically rough, grimy places, where everyone there spent all their time and effort making as many credits as they could. The place was likely populated with the usual mix of surly miners and jaded bureaucrats, meaning I wasn't going to get any scintillating conversation or riveting discussions on the nature of art – which suited me just fine.
Sighting a flashing set of green lights, I flicked on the thrusters to slow the shuttle down and began my descent. The shuttle gave a small shudder with the landing bay tractorbeam locking on, so I shut the engines down and let the shuttle be guided in by the automated parking system. My mind drifted, as I considered my options. Maybe I should stop by their canteen, have a meal and stretch my legs a little. Hell, if the local ladies weren't too skuzzy, it might do me some good to have my chain yanked. Yeah, get my mind off things, that's a fucking good idea. I realized, however, with consid
erable sourness, that the only ladies I was going to find in this joke of a “colony” would be a handful of over-worked hookers.
My head still pounding, I cursed as I stood up to the polite bleeping indicating it was safe to exit the shuttle. I grabbed the datapad with the delivery manifest that would release the cargo, and, throwing on my jacket (which thankfully had only a few splotches of vomit), I cranked open the door release, eager to get this delivery done and back to something soothing, like sleep or more booze. I doubt anything could have prepared me for what followed.
“Welcome!” a deep baritone voice boomed, the moment I stepped off the shuttle.
I had to a pause moment, certain I was hallucinating, as I registered the garish sight of a rather rotund man, literally glowing with the most bling I had ever seen hanging, attached or draped over a human being: there were at least a good dozen gold chains suspended around his neck, along with many multiples of bejeweled rings on each of his fingers, in his ears, through his nostrils and even one, for good measure, in his right eyebrow. Quite incredibly too, even his clothes were a custom-made gold and silver track-suit, complete with a platinum blue cape. Really? A cape? Who wore capes? Who was this guy? Where was I?
“I'm here for a delivery...” I said hesitantly, my uncertainty and nervousness rising as I noted the two heavily armed guards on either side of the golden dude.
A rich and, dare I say it, golden laugh answered me, “Yes, of course, you are! We've been expecting you!”
“I'm here from the... the...” I started, not knowing if it was safe to reveal my Rebel affiliation.
“The Rebellion! Yes!” the blindingly gold man cried out for every possible Imperial agent in the area to hear. “We are always happy to have our Rebel friends visit.”
“Ah, yes... thank you...” I stuttered uncomfortably. “I have a delivery.”
“A delivery, yes. You mentioned,” the man said, smiling. I noticed that even his teeth were plated with gold and encrusted with rubies and opals. “If you don't mind? ...” he continued, pointing to my datapad.
“Oh, yes. Sorry,” I jolted upright, feeling a fool as I fumbled with my datapad. Flipping as quickly as I could to the confirmation screen, I held the datapad between us, so we could press our thumprints on it simultaneously. As soon as we did, the datapad emitted an approving blip as the shuttle's cargo-trunk was unlocked, followed by the pneumatic swoosh of the doors opening.
The gold man suddenly rushed forward and embraced me, crying out far too loudly in my ear, “My name is Londo! I'm the city's mayor. You must stay for a while and relax in our city.”
“My name is Tim. And, th-thank you, but if we can get the next cargo on I can be on my way,” I said, struggling to wriggle my way out of his suffocating grasp.
“Nonsense, Tim! Nonsense! I won't hear of it!” Londo beamed, now applying some hearty thumps on my back. “You must stay. Besides, it will take some time for my people to unload your shuttle and get it ready for takeoff again. You may as well enjoy our hospitality.”
A swarm of said people had materialized around us, pushing carts and trolleys of varying sizes, and had started to unload, with a remarkable amount of care, what seemed to be shrink-wrapped green bricks. I didn't particularly want to stay any longer than necessary on this grimy shit-hole with this gold-fetish wacko, but it was clear from the number of people now mobbing my shuttle and the mounting stack of bricks on the trolleys that my delivery was a large one.
“Alright. Thank you, Londo,” I said grudgingly. “Do you have somewhere I can clean up? I had a rough flight over.”
“Of course! Of course! Not a problem at all!” Londo pshawed with his hands. “We have everything you'll ever need. You may not even want to leave.”
Londo's eyes twinkled, as he opened the airlock to the city, causing a gush of warm air to waft over me. I could find no words to say, and there was no need, as Londo knowingly watched my slackjawedness, as I was totally and utterly blown away by a wave of pounding music, strobing lights, and giggling, beckoning women.
“Welcome to Cloudy City, Tim.”
CHAPTER 15