Dishwasher On Mars

By Jeff Bagato

The Clangers want to smuggle screech into Mars. The cops want to stop them. The huggies want to save the Martian environment. The native Paubaubau want to protect their sacred waffle paddies. The waffle gods want to preserve the interdimensional gateway. Javelin Praecox just wants to wash dishes. But first he has to escape the Clangers, avoid the police, deal with the huggies, survive life with the native Martians, and navigate the layers of Waffle Consciousness. But what good is it to be a drug mule, outlaw, guru, warrior, or ambassador if he never gets to work on the second planet along his goal of dishing on every inhabited world in the solar system?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329946705

Book preview

Dishwasher On Mars

Dishwasher On Mars

by Jeff Bagato

Copyright page

Dishwasher On Mars

Copyright 2013 by Jeff Bagato

ISBN: 978-1-329-94670-5 eBook

Rights

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Publisher

Published by

Panic Research Press

PO Box 2482

Merrifield, VA 22116

www.panicresearch.com

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Chapter 1

As the shuttle began to decelerate, Mars loomed on the little flip down video screens hanging from the low ceiling. The planet had slowly transformed from a sparkling dot to a red marble, and finally to a screen-hogging orb big enough to carry cities filled with colonists, miners, tourists, students. Down there, somewhere unseen, was the resort where I was scheduled to begin work in a few days—only my second job toward my goal of washing dishes on every inhabited spot in the solar system.

So far, I hadn’t exactly done a lot of dishing; my last gig, on Uranus, ended abruptly when the mining base’s first dishwasher returned from captivity. Even as the sole disher there, I had the native creatures, called stickies, doing most of the work; those little guys could scrub a pot down to the shine, and it would be sterile, too!

I was hoping to get down to business here at the Maradise Found resort. Most people see dishwashing as a chore, but I find it relaxing. Sure, it can be drudgery at times, but there’s nothing like a sink full of suds and dishes to calm my mind. I really enjoy the flow of thoughts and ideas as my hands stay busy.

I was studying the red globe on the screen, trying to find the location for Ares City and the resort, when the image switched to words set in a glowing, futuristic type:

An official message from the Martian Government.

A man’s head and shoulders appeared: a middle aged guy with neatly pressed hair, wearing black framed glasses and a gray and red checked sports jacket.

Welcome to Mars, the head boomed. My name is Garber Tonsilbarth, President of Mars. I hope you will enjoy your stay here on our beautiful planet. You’ll find that Mars is a safe, happy place with clean streets and friendly, hardworking citizens. People are our greatest resource, and we can always use more folks. So if you’re thinking of emigrating from your home world, please drop by the Martian Immigration Office for more information.

The president glared seriously at the camera. On a darker note, I must warn you that Mars is currently under a Red Alert due to drug smuggling activities here. You may have heard about the violence perpetrated by several gangs in Ares City, including the Clangers and the Dark Hearts, and the epidemic of psychosis caused by the drug these gangs are smuggling and distributing. The scourge is commonly known as Screech, sometimes Flinch, Acid Bath, Ratspit, or Moon Rock. Whatever its name, this substance is extremely dangerous and addictive. If anyone offers you this drug—for sale or sample—for your own safety, do not accept it. Nor should you attempt to detain or apprehend the person making the offer. You can best help our enforcement efforts by reporting the incident to the nearest authorities. We have installed manned police booths and stations throughout the city for your protection. If you cannot easily access one of these stations, you may also use one of the numerous call boxes we have installed at nearly every street corner. Of course, you can also call or text nine-one-one.

The Martian President paused to smile. Together we can keep Ares City safe and enjoyable for everyone. I hope you will enjoy your stay here on Mars, the beautiful Red Planet.

The Red Alert Planet, that’s what they should call it, muttered the guy next to me, Brob Multicap. A mine surveyor and geologist by profession, Brob had boarded off Europa and ever since made a habit of responding to any messages from pilot, stewards, or government with sour interjections. Had a buddy whose girlfriend tried this screech stuff. Fried her brain like a Twinkie at a state fair. Any time you talked to her, she’d just squawk and shriek. That’s why they call it that.

Screech?

That’s right. It’s all ‘cause of those damn huggies. She went to one of their meetings. Damn save the planet nonsense. Place is a big, fleeking desert, dead for a hundred million years or more. Nothing left to save. All they do is hinder mine business. And Mars needs mines. Without ‘em, no work, no domes, no prosperity. They ought to lock ‘em all up.

I read something about native Martians in a guidebook, and a native plant used to make some medicine.

A myth. There ain’t no Paubaubaus any more than there’s a Bigfoot on Earth. So they found a few random artifacts. Cosmic litter, most likely planted by the huggies to fool gullible archeologists. Nobody’s ever seen ‘em. Nobody reliable. No pictures. No vid. A hoax.

What about the native plant? The one PharCom tried to patent.

You mean waffle. That’s real enough. PharCom’s harvesting the stuff and refining it for an MNC cure. You’ve seen the ads for Yage2? That’s another one to look out for. Don’t ever take the raw stuff. Huggies use it, probably why they’re so damn looney. In fact, if you ever see a huggie, run the other way.

Though it was usually called the Wastings, I knew MNC stood for musculo-neuro cellulosis. A microvirus that attacked either the muscles, the nerves, or both, slowly converting them to cellulose, it had caused an epidemic among the Earth people spread out across the solar system.

Thanks for the warning. I’ll probably be too busy working to get out much.

Where at?

The resort. Maradise Found.

No kidding? That’s where I’m staying. Company dollars. Anyway, it’s time for my tranquie. I can’t stand landings. Brob shook out three candy-coated pills from a little rectangular plastic box, gulped them down with the last of his whiskey sour. Nitey night.

Uh, good night.

When the pilot told us to prepare for touchdown, Brob was fast asleep. The stewardess had to come strap him in.

One less drone to deal with later, she muttered before flashing me a saccharine smile. You need any help with your harness, young man?

I think I can manage. Thanks anyway.

Re-entry was definitely rough. The ship bounced and banged around, and it got pretty warm. Some of the insulating tiles must have blown off the undercarriage. The lights strobed on and off while the electric wires burned, but the auxiliary power flicked on by the time we had landed. For a while there, I kind of wished for a tranquie myself.

Once we were on the ground, it took about an hour to taxi into the terminal from the airstrip. Everyone jumped up at once and started grabbing for their stuff in the overhead bins. I was having trouble getting my bag out of the compartment when a tall guy in a dark blue suit and sunglasses passed by me in the aisle.

Need some help?

Maybe, I laughed. My bag doesn’t want to come out of there.

He reached into the compartment, fumbling with my luggage for a bit. Seems to be stuck. OK, there we go.

He pulled it out half way, and I took it from there.

Hey, thanks.

No problem, he grinned. Enjoy your stay on Mars.

Chapter 2

The spaceport teemed with so many people I had to pause to take it all in. For almost a year, I hadn’t seen more than a couple dozen humans at any one time. After the wave of agoraphobia passed, I joined the line of passengers in the customs area. While we waited, a crowd of huggies held our attention with a demonstration in the main hall, just beyond the gate. They were dressed in red dungarees and one-piece red work suits, which were patched with