Anton's Odyssey Read online

  “Sincerely, Charles Pecelschmidt Sr., first mate on behalf of the captain.”

  I was surprised by the announcement. Ms. Gross didn’t strike me as the gossiping type. I hoped the fine for perpetuating rumors wasn’t retroactive because my essay would be rather incriminating evidence. However, considering Cotton was rodent-like in appearance, my essay bridged some of the gap between truth and malevolent falsehood.

  Without warning, a voice right above me shouted, “WHAT’S UP BIG BRO!” Completely surprised, I jumped and shrieked. Cotton stuck his head out of the duct and said, “When you’re scared, you scream just like a little girl. I bet you nearly pissed your pants.”

  “No, I don’t! No, I didn’t!” I protested.

  Cotton dropped the grating into the room with a clang and tumbled to the floor with the grace of an injured albatross. He tried to read the announcement. His eyes darted back and forth, but he couldn’t read the message fast enough as it scrolled upwards. “What’s it say?” he asked.

  “It says your big bro, namely me, just bought you limited immunity from prosecution for crawling around in the ventilation ducts. No one is going to look for you in there unless you’re a complete jackass and do something real stupid like shout out at people, like you just did to me.”

  “Cool!” He smiled. “So it’s okay if I keep hanging out in the ducts?”

  Silently, I thought about it for a while. “Yes, if it’s that important to you, you can. Just don’t be stupid, and make sure you wash your filthy clothes and your filthy body every day.”

  “Cool!” He smiled. “Tell you what, I can do that now.” He took off his shirt exposing his filthy navel. Before I could divert my eyes he dropped his pants. I don’t know what was more disturbing; the sight of Cotton’s shriveled foreskin, and as far as I could tell Cotton was the only person in the universe who still had one, or the brown streaks that marked where his under things clung to his crack. I turned around hastily and re-read the bulletin.

  “Why does it keep reminding us that the name of the ship is the Magic Sky Daddy?” I asked, “It’s like the first mate thinks we’re a bunch or retards or something.”

  Cotton didn’t answer. The door to the living unit closed behind me. My brother had left his pile of dirty laundry behind for me to clean up, as usual. I thought awhile and remembered how Hammond told me how some starmen jump from ship to ship with hardly any respite in between voyages. When exhaustion sets in, the mind gets fuzzy, and if they use fenes, the fogginess gets even worse. The days and years blur together and it’s easy to forget where they are. I focused my attention back to Cotton’s soiled clothing and wondered whether or not I should wash them or if I’d be better off having the rags incinerated.

  A few moments later, the door opened and Bob the steward appeared looking thoroughly disgusted. He held Cotton by the scruff of his neck. The cooler air of the passageway had caused Cotton’s dong to retreat completely into his pelvis.

  “Please keep your pet on a leash!” Bob barked. “If I catch him in the passageway without his pants again, I’ll have him put to sleep! We’re allowed to exterminate rodents you know!” He pushed Cotton in the room and wiped his hand off on our wall, leaving a dark oily stain. The door closed behind him.

  I had nothing to do during my last day of in-house suspension because I was way ahead in all my regular schoolwork and had finished all possible extra credit. I was eager to end my solitary confinement and rejoin my peers, but part of me wanted to maintain some semblance of academic achievement. I wasn’t exactly certain why, however. I didn’t find the subject matter very interesting, but doing well in school made me feel like less of a loser. Perhaps the countless one-on-one lectures I had endured with my teachers and counselors in the past about how education was the key to upward social mobility were finally starting to sink in. Being forced to work during in-house suspension showed me how easy it was not to make a jackass out of myself, and that I didn’t need to study for hours on end just to keep teachers from hollering at me.

  I spent much of that day figuring out a strategy to maintain both my grades and my afterschool habits of leisure and lethargy. Assignments were always posted days in advance, which, in the past, made it hard for me to talk my way out of uploading homework I never completed. Anytime I invented some sort of emergency that happened the night before, such as my brother needing emergency surgery or getting detained by the police because I witnessed somebody getting knifed, I always got the same canned response: “Assignments were posted days ago, so that’s no excuse. If your life is as chaotic as you say it is, then you need to be more proactive about getting your homework done ahead of time.”

  I reviewed my schedule to figure out the best time to get my work done. Art was interactive and gave me a chance to chat with Ellen, so I couldn’t do any school work that period. I must have liked English, because I always caught myself paying attention. I figured I could do most of my homework during science and social studies because the teachers in those subjects didn’t ever cover anything that wasn’t already in the text. If anything, all they ever did was cut and paste sections of the text onto the big vid, which was really boring.

  My only insurmountable obstacle was math. Without access to a math processor, I was doomed to fail. Perhaps, I thought, I would have to get myself sent to in-house suspension at least once a term just so I could cheat my way to a passing grade.

  Jeff and Mike returned to the Information Technology Archives late in the afternoon. Stick Geek Allen looked pretty nervous. The archives clerk kept an eye on the two goons, so they more or less behaved themselves and did little more than snigger quietly at pictures of girls in bikinis, who were probably not visual aids for whatever incomplete assignment got them banished from class that day.

  The archives clerk made more noise than Jeff and Mike. She tapped loudly on the datapad and kept sighing at regular intervals. At one point she even muttered, “Come on, do it yourself.” I guessed she was messaging someone who was irritating her.

  Dr. Zanders’s calm but assertive voice resonated from the clerk’s computer speakers, “Gretchen, I really need that document, this is very important.”

  “I am not supposed to leave my workstation when tasked with the supervision of minors,” the clerk retorted. “I’ll attach it to a message and send it to you. It’s faster that way, anyway.”

  “No, it’s a very old document. Most digital copies were purged when the protocols and equipment went obsolete.”

  “Well, then send Mary to come get it.”

  “She’s not in a position to leave the patient’s bedside.”

  “Well, then you’re going to have to come get it yourself.”

  “Gretchen, I appreciate your situation and I know that you take your job very seriously, but this is an emergency. I really need you to deliver it to me.”

  The clerk rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She stepped away from her workstation only to be summoned back by Dr. Zanders’s voice, “Gretchen wait!”

  “Yes, what is it?” she snorted.

  “I’m not in the medical center.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at E7-17.”

  “E7-70? Where’s that?”

  “No 17! Not 70! No time for questions, the situation is critical.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “Track the numbers in ascending order starting from the main passageway. When you get to number 17, turn left. You’ll see Mr. Boldergat guarding a set of double doors. Tell him I sent you and show him the text. He’ll let you in.”

  “Mr. Boldergat?”

  “Yes, Mr. Boldergat, the sergeant at arms.”

  “Oh, you mean Jim?”

  “Gretchen, I really need you to hurry.”

  Gretchen stepped away from her workstation and then came back.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Practical Cardiopulmonary Restoration of the Hypothermic Patient, Eleventh Editio
n.”

  “Oh is that the book I found for you the other day? The one with the blue cover?”

  “Yes, the very one.”

  “The one I wouldn’t let you check out.”

  “Yes, that’s the very book! I need it now. Please hurry!”

  Gretchen froze for a second and looked contemplative. “I suppose I should have let you check it out. I’m sorry.”

  “Gretchen, I know you had the best of intentions, but that’s not important now. What is important is that you bring me that book as soon as possible.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” She stepped away and reappeared holding an ancient hardbound book with a blue cover. The book had seen much use, many pages dog-eared. She left the archives moving a little faster than her normal sloth-like pace.

  “What’s Dr. Zanders doing in the cargo hold auxiliary?” Allen asked, his question directed at no one in particular.

  I just shrugged, but Jeff was a little less forgiving. “Hey shut up!” he barked.

  “Yeah,” agreed Mike. “You’re distracting us from our studies.”

  “I don’t think anyone in this room is going to believe you guys are studying,” Allen retorted.

  “Oh yeah,” Mike turned to me and asked, “does it look like we’re studying?”

  “Sure,” I said apathetically. The intensity at which they examined the bikini-ed flesh on the vid screen could be construed as some sort of study, so I gave them a pass on a technicality.

  “Yeah, you’re cool,” Jeff whispered to me, winking.

  “See,” said Mike, “we were studying.”

  Jeff got up from his seat and bent over so that his face was just a few inches from Allen’s glasses. “Apologize!” he snapped.

  “I’m not afraid of you.” Allen said, but his quivering voice suggested otherwise.

  “I said apologize!” Jeff barked.

  Defiantly, Allen shook his head.

  Jeff slapped Allen’s face forcefully. The impact was loud, and Allen’s head jerked to the side.

  Mike shouted, “Smack his glasses off. That’ll learn him.”

  Allen had a hand-shaped red mark on the side of his face, but his giant glasses remained in place. To a certain extent, I was impressed with Allen. Most stick geeks when faced against such overwhelming odds would have started bawling, but from Allen, not a single tear.

  “Apologize!” Jeff barked.

  Allen shook his end. Jeff slapped the poor boy a second time, this time from the left with the back of his hand. Allen’s head jerked again, but his glasses stayed on his face.

  “Damn it,” Jeff cried, looking over at Mike for help. “Why won’t his glasses come off?”

  Mike shrugged. “Slap him again!”

  The third time, Jeff hit Allen so hard that the small boy’s head snapped back and forth like a speed bag, but the glasses didn’t budge.

  “Damn it!” shouted Jeff. He reached forward and grabbed Allen’s glasses by the nose piece.

  Allen cried, “No, stop!” and put his hands up to try to defend himself, but Jeff easily overpowered him. Jeff held both of Allen’s wrists in his right hand. With his left, he pinched Allen’s glasses by the nosepiece and pried them off his face. Allen screamed. Jeff released the weaker boy’s wrists, and Allen collapsed on the floor in a heap.

  “Holy crap!” Jeff shouted to Mike. “Look at him! He’s a freak!”

  The mystery as to why anybody in the modern age of laser corneal sculpting would require corrective lenses became apparent. Allen had no eyes. Above the bridge of his nose was a short and scarred forehead crowned by a very low hairline. The sight of the disfigured boy was almost sickening. Whatever accident left him that way must have been terrible. I felt bad for him.

  “Put his glasses back on,” Mike said. “His face is going to make me puke!”

  “Naw man, take a look,” Jeff said. “They’re kinda freaky.” He held his hand behind the lenses. The glasses projected an image of Allen’s eyes onto Jeff’s palm and fingers. The holographic eyes blinked inquisitively.

  Mike stood up and lumbered over to Jeff. “That is freaky! I guess he can see with those things.” Mike flicked the lenses with his finger. The image on Mike’s hand lost focus and disappeared momentarily.

  Allen clutched his temples. “Stop it! That hurts!”

  “Really,” said Mike with mock concern. “It hurts when I do this.” He flicked the lenses again. Allen whimpered.

  The two thugs had crossed a line. They had succeeded in humiliating Allen so severely that he would never dare mouth off again, and continuing to harass the boy served no real purpose and could result in serious injury. Mike and Jeff were acting like gangsters from my old neighborhood, and they needed to stop.

  Allen tried to get up off the floor.

  “I wonder what happens if I do this?” Jeff twisted the glasses so that the lenses were no longer aligned. Overcome with vertigo, Allen stumbled, fell, and vomited all over the carpet.

  “Oh that’s gross!” Mike said. “And I thought the freak couldn’t get any more disgusting!”

  “He’s had enough, guys!” I said, standing up. “He’s learned his lesson!”

  “This doesn’t concern you, assface!” Mike shouted.

  “Yeah, what’s your problem assface?” Jeff said. “You better sit down if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I’m making it my problem,” I said, “and I’m not sitting down!”

  Jeff and Mike stood silently, looking at one another, wondering what to do next.

  Finally Mike said, “We’re leaving. We don’t have time for you. If you wanna clean up his puke, suit yourself.”

  The two goons turned to leave.

  “Give him his glasses back!” I shouted.

  Reluctantly, the boys turned around.

  “You better watch yourself, assface!” Mike said.

  “Yeah,” said Jeff. “You better back down, if you know what’s good for you.” Jeff held his hand out menacingly as if the glasses were some sort of weapon, which was pretty stupid. With one quick move, I snatched Allen’s glasses from Jeff’s clutches.

  “Oh no, you didn’t!” Jeff shouted.

  The glasses would face certain destruction in the impending melee, so I tossed them to Allen. The throw was well placed, the glasses landing just beyond his fingertips, but the action left me flatfooted and defenseless. I was taken off my feet as Mike slammed forward into me, the boney blade of his forearm striking the side of my ribs. As I fell, I cracked my head on a desk and saw stars. I tried to shake the blow off.

  “You better stay down, assface!” Jeff commanded.

  I got onto my hands and knees and Jeff kicked me hard in the ribs, knocking me onto my side. Jeff kicked me hard again, but didn’t pull his foot back fast enough. I caught his leg and twisted his ankle inwards. To stop his ligaments from tearing, Jeff had no choice but to twist inward and go down, chest to the carpet.

  I got to my feet, but Mike grabbed me from behind, pinning one of my arms to my side. I struggled but couldn’t get loose. Jeff crawled to his knees, and I knew if I didn’t free myself quickly, the two strong boys would pulverize me.

  With my free arm I elbowed Mike in the face, and he let go. Jeff shoved me hard, and I sprawled sideways. My chest struck the desk where Allen sat previously. I remained on my feet, but I could hear Jeff charging at me from behind. Without thinking, I picked up Allen’s deck and swung it with both hands. Jeff literally ran into my blow. There was a sickening crunch, and Jeff fell to the ground, blood spewing from his nose. I kicked him hard in the stomach to keep him out of the fight.

  Mike looked stunned that I had no qualms about fighting dirty. Before he could react, I tried to crack him in the face with the computer. The blow glanced off the side of his head, inflicting very little real damage. I was off balance and Mike had a clear shot at me, but demoralized, he turned and ran. Jeff crawled away after him.

  Allen was back up by the time the two thugs were gone. His glasses were
back on, making him look much more presentable.

  “Your glasses okay?” I asked, rubbing the bruise on my side.

  “Yes. They’re working fine,” he replied.

  I handed him his computer. The vid screen was cracked. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

  “No that’s okay. If I can’t fix it, I have another deck back home.” He cleared his throat, and in a humble tone said, “I appreciate the help. Not too many of the other kids stick up for me.”

  A muscle spasm in my side caused me to double over. I could hardly breathe. I put my hands on my knees and groaned. When the pain went away I said, “Yeah, don’t mention it!”

  Allen was lost in quiet contemplation. After a moment he asked, “They’re going to get us aren’t they?”

  I thought for a while. “Nobody else was around to see the fight, so there’s no need for them to save face with their buddies.” I replied. “Also, they know I’m not an easy target, so I should be okay.”

  “Well what about me?” Allen asked, concerned.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I dunno. You best avoid them. That mouth of yours can get you into trouble.”

  Allen nodded. I noticed the clock display in the corner of Allen cracked vid screen. The school day was over, and I had completed my sentence of in-house suspension. I turned to leave, and Allen called after me, “hey, thanks again!” It hurt too much to turn around so I merely waived my hand feebly. I found my way to the washateria and took off my shirt. There was a large bruise where Jeff’s foot connected with my ribs. In the middle of the bruise was a hard bump that was too painful to touch. I limped over to the medical center to see if Dr. Zanders could check to see if my ribs were broken, but then remembered he was in the cargo hold auxiliary for some reason. I also decided I was better off not explaining my mechanism of injury to an authority figure. I left without any plans to return.