The Zendo Agreement

Two bounty hunters, rivals, betrayers, lovers. They chase the same thing, the tiny disc that carries within it the means to end the war and save Earth from annihilation and enslavement. This is

The Zendo Agreement

The small office was dark, smelled like an animal cage needed cleaning. Oldman sat in his large EV-chair, his considerable bulk blotting-out the large oval window in front of him, as he watched the fiery debris from the latest mesosphere battle streak by the platform. The chunks of debris cut through what was left of Earth’s atmosphere, and flamed out into the oblivion below. Umber clouds obscured most of the Earth’s surface, but visible areas glowed orange and brown from raging fires.

Declan Hunter stood in the doorway behind Oldman and cleared his throat. The air inside was barely breathable, the oxygen being set too low, making the staleness tangible. The android guard turned toward Hunter, its eyes lit-up red, while yellow beams of beta particles ran his outline searching for weapons. Hunter flashed a contemptuous, toothy smile and nodded, as if the contraption cared about such pleasantries.

Oldman pointed toward the window. “There goes what was left of Stellar Nine Space Station. The Chinese are cooked, too.”

“Stellar Nine. Shame. I saw her launched. She was a beauty.”

“Well, not anymore, eh? Earth is done, now. Platforms like this one is all that’s left for us…survivors.”

“There’s always Alpha Centauri. But you hate worm holes.”

Oldman turned in his electric chair. “Too unpredictable. I don’t want to end up on a farm in Musca.”

“I’d pay to see that. You riding a six legged trogg.”

“We’re through here. The Velations are too powerful, their technology too great. They’ve won the battle already.” Oldman sneered. “The 21 day war, they’ll call it.”

He scanned Hunter with his hand held auto fan-laser.

Hunter sighed, exasperated.  “Seen enough, yet?”

“I have to be careful. That obliterator on your belt best be powered off.”

He looked down at the hunk of metal strapped to his hip. It was on standby, which looked the same as off, but it was charged and ready to fire.

“Of course it’s cold, Oldman. You think I don’t know the drill?”

Oldman rubbed his chin, nodded. “Good. What have you got for me?”

Hunter held out his hand, revealing a tiny heart shaped silver locket and chain. He let it dangle for a few seconds, then took a few slow steps forward and placed it on the desk.

Oldman, the Junker, hummed, took out his magnifier and gave it a scan. “Hah. Silver. Small. This is all you have after two weeks of spending my money, using my best EV Gig?”

“This and the pile of battle space junk on the dock. Ten tons of valuable metal.”

Oldman pointed at a metal laser as it scanned the cargo. “Yes, more or less six tons, I see.”

Hunter bit his lip, was about to let Oldman have it.

Oldman smiled. “The scale on board hasn’t been calibrated in months.”

“Then why’d you give me that piece of junk?”

“It’s the best I’ve got, Hunter. Don’t hurt my feelings. Seven and a half.”

“Ship’s computer said ten.”

“Let’s make it eight.”

“Fine. But I use the ship this weekend for a run to Hallum.”

“Hallum for the weekend. My, I must be paying you too much.”

“It’s personal.”

Oldman poked at the locket with the metal finger extension he used as a pointer. “Anything inside? It scans hollow.”

“Nothing.”

“When you found it, I mean. Perhaps there was something…huh?”

“Empty.”

“Arrrg. Worth maybe a few ounces of oatmeal.”

He tossed it over his shoulder onto a pile of junked electronics.

“Why are you wasting my time? I should have sent android seekers for all the good you’ve done me.”

The android laughed, its yellow eyes flashing in rhythm to the metallic sounding guffaws.  

Hunter gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on the obliterator, but held his place. “Okay, so she got away. I searched her cell thoroughly. Besides, you said anything she had. I can’t be held accountable for taste.”

Oldman leaned toward Hunter, his face an intense grimace. “She had what I was looking for ten hours ago, you pirate.” He turned to his android. “Search him.”

“It already did that.”

The android lit Hunter again.

“Besides, if I had anything to hide you think I’d bring it in here?” Hunter turned to the android. “You better have that setting on low or I’ll melt your joints.”

The beam shut down. The android turned to Oldman. A squelching voice emanated from the android. “He’s c,clean, bloss.”

“Nice voice-box there, Sluggo. You do poetry readings?”

“Now manually search him.”

The android stepped closer to Hunter, a low grrrr emanating from its voice box.

“Woof woof, Sluggo,” Hunter said, smirking. “Get your kicks.”

The android’s slick Teflon fingers were clumsy and scratched as they fumbled around Hunter’s fire-retardant flight suit. It made him smile, knowing this goofy android couldn’t detect a rocket in his pocket, let alone an ancient microchip stuffed into his collar.

Sluggo squared up and took a few steps back. “No-ting t-to reput, B-Boss.”

Hunter smirked. “I know a guy can fix that voice module”

Oldman waved his arm dismissively. “It’s a stock program. Old. Listen, I want you to go back out into the thick of things. Another bounty hunter may have gotten to her first. I have word that Shar Barrow may be on this one. You remember her, don’t you, Hunter? Tall brunette, dark eyes, quick…draw.”

How could he forget? He involuntarily touched the scar on his cheek from a scathing laser blast. A small reminder of their last encounter. Shar was tough, quick and smart. And beautiful. A dangerous combination.

Hunter couldn’t bring himself to say anything, so he just grunted. This pleased Oldman, and a half-smile spread his rubbery lips.

“Find Shar Barrow, you’ll find the girl. I think she’s got what we’re looking for. It could mean everything.”

Hunter turned to go. “Shar. Right.”

“And Declan…” Hunter stopped and turned to Oldman, creeped out that he had used his first name. He wasn’t on a first name basis with anybody. “…if I find you’ve been cheating me, hiding something…information, the girl, perhaps…” Oldman glared at him menacingly, then with a half-smile, nodded his dismissal.  

“Me cheat a master criminal like you? Come on….I’m an open book.” The door opened and Hunter said, under his breath, “You cheap cheat. I have better things to do than sell to you.”

PART 2

Shar the bounty hunter

The ship was cramped and stale from the sacks of bounty that filled every hold and seat. What Oldman didn’t get, Shar hauled to another Junker. One that paid more for certain items, like blown electronics and insulation. Shar buckled herself into the pilot’s chair, flipped the auto-mode switch and sat back for the long ride. The destination was a planet in the Gallo quadrant. A dry pale world with underground cities and deep caverns carved out of desert rock. An ancient place of strange rituals and customs she’d rather not think about, much less partake in, such as spitting in your hand and wiping it on your own face, things like that. Slavery there was illegal, but still acceptable, if done on the sly. She couldn’t pronounce the actual name of the planet. It started with a Z sound and ended with a few clucking noises. Desert squawk. A language only the Hulli people could speak. All the runner just called it the Hulli planet.

Shar was starving. It had been hours since her last meal, a small cut of a plant called hebo, a green succulent that held every mineral and most vitamins a human needs. Although mostly carbs, it also had a few grams of protein. You could live on it for weeks. She reached for a stash from the sack on the co-pilot’s chair, and rummaged around for a chunk of the meaty plant. The sting was quick, sharp and hit with a wallop. She pulled her hand away and immediately spotted the barb. It was deep. In the meaty flesh of her right palm. A calling card from the stinging fistuka. A nasty insect that scavenged hebo. It embedded one of three barbs from its large tail. Luckily it was the middle barb. She heard the smallest one could kill you in minutes. They were known to hide under the husk of the hebo plant, but they’d always leave a tell-tall hole. Angry at herself for not checking the husks thoroughly enough, she closed the bag and threw in onto the floor.

She held her hand up to inspect the wound. A bright red ring encircled the barb sticking out of her fleshy part of her thumb. Pulling it out would release more toxins and could mean quick death. Her body was reacting rapidly to the poison. Her face felt flushed and she was a little dizzy. They say some of the tribal people on the unpronounceable planet are immune. But the swelling had already started, and she’d be delirious before reaching her destination. She needed to wrap it in ice and head to the nearest outpost. At least a five hour delay. Shar wrapped a cold pack around her aching hand and punched in the coordinates to the nearest outpost. It’d be less than an hour before reaching refueling station Seventeen-Twenty. They’d have emergency medicine there. She hoped.

Something on her right thigh moved. She flinched and flicked it off with the back of her ailing hand. It was a fituka all right. A big one. Black, with red rings on its abdomen, large claws and two more stingers on its ass end. She didn’t want to kill it, just in case they needed it for further examination or to divine some serum from its rancid bowels. She searched the cabin and spotted a large hat she’d worn on a visit to the desert. It was floppy and heavy. A loud hiss rang out as she gently placed it over the gnarly insect.

She sat back in the pilot’s seat and began to doze. Faceless people talked to her, blurry places ran before her, like cites on a river flowing by in her a half-dream. A blaring alarm startled her awake. The proximity alert. It took a few seconds for Shar to realize there was a marauder on her port side, and closing fast.

“Suzie, shields at max,” she said, groggily.

The ship’s AI voice rang out. “Shields at maximum.”

“Quadruple flux…evasion pattern.”

“Q.F.E.P. in effect.”

Her head pounded. Fatigue sapped her strength. Her hand was swollen to almost twice its normal size. A dark ring was forming around the wound. She had no tie to suffer. She stared at the visual heads-up display. Black space lay ahead, distant stars barley readable in the flux of hyper-speed. She fumbled for the controls, trying to get a visual on the intruder.

“Suzie, who’s out there?” Her voice was low and hoarse. “Get a fix on their hull.”

The display illuminated an oval object with three small fins on the either side, like and old fashioned jet. It glowed orange as it ripped through space. It was gaining fast.

“Hull is comprised of titanium alloy, composite V plastic and Gallium minerals.”

“Gallium, huh? Those damn pirate trog herders.”

After spending six months on Gallium, serving mining interests, chasing down company loan jumpers, she’d had enough of their ruthless ways. Unlike the unpronounceable planet that started with Z, Gallium was completely uncivilized and chaotic. Bands of pirates roamed the sky above the planet, waiting to cash in on anything that moved near their space. They were either professional miners or pirates, mostly. The poor mine workers lived in shabby huts along the base of the rugged mountains, and subsisted on company store wages. All things led back to the mine owners. They owned the planet. Sure they had a system of government, but that had devolved into a bribe-taking theocracy, based on the worship of minerals and wealth. The powerful gave nothing to the people. And the people did nothing to stop them. The rich held the poor workers by the throat and never let go. She’d been naïve when taking the job there, not realizing how bad things actually were. But it only took Shar a week to figure it all out and the whole remainder of her six month contract as a bounty hunter to get the hell out. She chased down criminals, not runaway mine workers. But it made her tougher, more wary, and a better fighter.

She was wanted by the authorities on Gallium for what they called, “Abomination,” a term Galliumites used for those who criticized their ways, or the elite, and for absconding with one of their semi-slaves. She was a dark haired beauty named, Kelsiana. A house worker for a rich slob by the name of Gran, a wealthy mine owner from the southern district mines. Brought to the house at only seven years old, Kelsiana was sold by her parents and had known nothing but servitude, until Shar taught her of other worlds, and opened her eyes to new possibilities on other planets where she might be given a fair shake. Maybe even take advantage of her natural intelligence and beauty.

So, now a scout ship from Gallium was on her tail.

The heads up display flashed red. 

“Warning, proximity alert.”

The microfilm in Shar’s collar weighed heavy now. If found by a Gallium pirate, she’d be killed and they’d sell it to the highest bidder. No doubt, they’d get rich in the process. The film holds a secret only a few people knew. A secret that could alter the course of the Velation war, and change worlds. Not many possessed the knowledge to read the ancient script in which it was written, but those who did have the ancient knowledge also had a means to obtain world peace.

The AI voice rang out. “Warning, docking of unauthorized vehicle in process.”

A loud bang, and the ship momentarily ticked off course before righting itself again. Shar, woozy from the poison circulating in her veins, pointed her disrupter at the cockpit hatch. The gun was heavy and it kept drooping before she righted it again, aiming at the door. Her arm ached. Her face was covered with sweat. She had a weakness deep within her core and shook her head to remain alert. Another loud bang.

She could barely speak, but whispered to the control panel. “Keep the emergency docking hatch sealed.”

“Hull temperature is rising. 2600 degrees Fahrenheit. 2650 degrees Fahrenheit.”

Shar breathed heavy. “They’re using torches. Expel Co2 reserves…out the port side vent.”

A loud whooshing lasted less than a minute.

“Co2 reserved spent. Hull temperature is 2500 degrees.”

“Shake off that ship. Corkscrew maneuver. Now.”

The ship turned and bucked, and twisted. Shar’s head flopped like a rag doll. Her stomach tightened and she almost spewed her breakfast.  

“Hull temperature 2650 degrees.”

Shar’s vision was growing dark. She laid her head back on the pilot’s chair and took a deep breath. She held the blaster loosely in her hand, resting it on the center console, still pointed toward the hatch, waiting for it to open.

“How many…?” Shar started to say, but couldn’t find the breath to finish.

“How many?” Repeated the AI.

“Pirates out there?”


“There is one life form at the hatch entrance. The superheated elements have expanded enough to weaken the security bolts. Breach is imminent.”

Darkness came upon her. Silence. Weightlessness. Her body floated to the top of the navigation console and drifted through the walls of the ship. She spread her arms, like a condor soaring high above the golden canyon lit in morning sun, then twisting sideways, descending into the blue shadows of the valley. The pristine river that formed the gorge sparkled in the sunlight. Glittering waters ran by warm rocks that lined the spot, into an eddy that leisurely spun the leaves that had fallen there. She landed on a golden, heart-shaped leaf. She was that small, the size of the ring on her middle finger. And she rode the leaf, its veins pulsing slowly in steady heartbeats, yellowing from autumn cool, twisting in the current, meandering down into the faster waters into the narrows, white with churning, foaming energy. Up ahead, beyond the rocks was her house, in the shadow of the tall pines, its roughhewn wooden walls snapping awake in the early sun, collecting pine needles on its roof, the dew lifting in silent transmutation. Peace had come at last.

The hatch door opened with a metallic bang, pulling her back from the peace and of the warmth and into the hard pilot’s chair. She opened her eyes. A menacing shadow hung above her. She instinctively reached for her blaster, but a hand stopped her. The weapon fired aimlessly in the cabin. Sparks flew. Heat lit the space around her. Bolts of energy ricocheted around, pinging and gouging her ship. Then a hand grabbed her arm. She kicked and bit, sure she was a mighty force, but the call of the river was strong. She was pulled back onto the yellow leaf, slowly twisting into the spot where she could see smoke rising from the morning fire above her chimney, and she let go.

To Be Continued…

Brownstone Diary

September 23, 1983

I’m standing on dark brown linoleum, my foot narrowly escaping a cockroach as it scurries under the day bed. The room is dark, tall, with ten-foot ceilings. The beige paint is chipping out in large, continent shaped patches, little South Americas, Africa hanging by a thread. Shelves line the walls above the sofa. Good, a book case. The day bed comes with the room. A bent screen is jammed into the open window and I can hear traffic noise, but at least it’s on the ground floor. I look over at my potential roommate, Jim. He’s upbeat, about thirty five, good looking; almost game show host-like in his mannerisms and enthusiasm.

What the hell, “I’ll take it,” I say.

Three hundred and fifty a month, how can you go wrong? A bedroom with a private entrance connected to a small hall and bath. And the rooms are big, if not crumbling out of themselves. I convince myself that with a little bit of paint, it’ll be like new.

“Good!” he says, “Let’s get a drink.”

We wander across Second Avenue and up the hill to the Bull’s Eye tavern. They know Jim there and he seems to be well liked, this game show host roommate of mine. And why not, he’s athletic, got a great smile, dimpled chin, a full shock of hair. We sit in front of a couple of drafts and he casually asks, “By the way, you know I’m gay, right?”

A little twinge hits my stomach. Is he looking at my crotch? Why isn’t he effeminate? I never would have guessed he’s gay. Does he have orgies in his room? I look at the bartender. Now they think I’m gay, right? “Well, I’m not gay,” I say.

Oh, he assures me, I don’t flaunt it. I don’t care for fems, he says. Besides, this is strictly a business deal. Rent for a room. It wasn’t in the ad, but I don’t really care, “Sure, sure. No problem.”

After I pile in my few meager possessions, bags of clothes and my desk from home, I encamp on the day bed. First nights are always the hardest. Cramped and lonely in my little burrow, I learn not to be afraid of things that crawl in the dark and scatter when the lights come on. Lying in the blackened room, they crawl casually across my arm, and I fling the insects onto the wall or floor. I reach up with the side of my fist and pound them into submission, letting them fall where they may.

At four AM, the heavy cruisers arrive. I hear then scuttling and munching on God knows what. The armored division attacks my front. I brush my arm and a heavy thud hits the floor. That was no small insect. I turn the lights on. The floor and walls are alive with brown exoskeletons scattering in all directions.

September 24, 1983

My second evening is less strained. I take comfort in my newly purchased roach motels and poison traps. Already, there are fewer insects to be seen. Suddenly, I hear something at the window. A dark bare arm slowly reaches in through the curtains, fingers outstretched, reaching, ready to grasp. I yell, “Hey!” The arm jerks to attention and recoils as if wound back onto a human fishing reel. I close the window and lock the doors, unsettled, I’m feeling lost in the whirr of the city.

September 30, 1983

I wouldn’t say Jim is a health nut, but he sure does like to run. Right up to Central Park and back every day. Lifts weights in the kitchen, too. Breathes real loud and strong to get that energy flowing. One, two, three twist and turn, up and down, deep knee bends, come on, one and two, his thick boozy breath billowing into all corners of the room, like a steam bath in there when he gets going. It’s tough to swallow my scrambled eggs with all that going on. Amazing how he can stay up until three a.m. sucking up all that booze and pop right back up the next morning… two, three, and here we go and one. Shouldn’t complain, though. It’s tough to find a first floor apartment this cheap on the Upper East Side.

October 2, 1983

I’m waiting tables while I take classes in acting: Shakespeare, scene study, auditioning technique. I have a long way to go. Feel lost in a sea of false hope and groundless optimism leading nowhere. Auditions go badly. I’ve met a few girls in acting class. Made a few friends. I am building a life, my own life, while learning to be a good waiter.

Jan 7, 1984

Jim throws me a surprise party for my thirtieth birthday. Friends from work, some of his friends, they all chip in, buy me a mattress for the wooden frame that I had made from cut pine and bolts. Fits real nice. Damn nice of these guys, friends of Jim’s, mostly, acquaintances of mine. Damn nice.

We finished the evening with another bottle of wine. A girl from the tavern offers herself to me as a present. Can’t complain about that. Damned nice of her. Damned nice. Six months is a long time. Later, we talk on the stoop in front of her apartment until 3 a.m. I’ll have to avoid her for a while. Don’t want to give the wrong impression.

Jan 25, 1984

I come home unexpectedly and my private entrance is locked. I pound on the door, hear shuffling noises in the room and creaking from my desk chair. Jim calls for me to wait a minute. Finally, after several minutes, he unlocks the door. I hear them as they scurry into his side of the apartment, Jim and his secret guest. Later I learn he was glad I had arrived when I did, not knowing what the strange man might have done, Jim being naked and tied up in my favorite chair.

February 25, 1984

Jim has decided to kill himself. Seems he’s unhappy with his life. The booze and the cocaine, the anonymous sex, have all taken their toll. AIDS has crept into the picture. A nurse friend told us about hygiene and the treatment for the afflicted. She scared me half to death and I went out and bought some liquid soap for the bath. No more sharing bar soap for this kid. Jim was greatly offended by the soap, but I told him we always used the liquid at home, I’m just homesick for it. I know Jim doesn’t have AIDS. I think.

February 28, 1984

Three AM. Jim is weepy. He staggers into my room, wakes me up, and tells me he wants to kill himself. I ask him how and he tells me to mind my own business, but if I must know, he has a hoard of pills. I tell Shirley, our mutual friend from the Bull’s Eye and she comes over to search his room while he’s gone out. She finds pills, but there isn’t enough to kill him, just maybe make him sleep for a day or two.

March 3, 1984

I feel terrible about Jim. I confide in a friend at work. He tells me there is nothing for it, he had a roommate that killed himself and he was just a selfish prick, tells me people who off themselves are all selfish pricks. I worry anyway, thinking how unfair it all is.

March 5, 1984

Pills gone, Jim has decided to kill himself the slowest way possible. He stays up all night snorting cocaine, and drinking with his new buddies, the drug dealers. They play cards until morning light; argue about nonsense, thinking they are being clever when they are repetitive and shallow. They offer Jim money for my room; have them move in, me out. Jim turns them down, but likes to tell me about the offers anyway. I find a .22 caliber bullet on the kitchen floor.

Jim comes from a big, Irish Catholic family in the mid-west somewhere. His sister talks to me on the phone, thinks I’m his lover. She wants to know if he’s really all right. I lie; tell her he’s just fine. She seems relieved. What can she do anyway, I think. It’s not like she’s going to come rescue him. Yeah, he’s fine. Well, take care of him, she says. I don’t bother to tell her, he’s just my roommate and I try to avoid him as much as possible.

March 25, 1984

I am finally alone in the apartment! Some much needed alone time! My resentment toward Jim has peaked and I sing aloud, “Ding dong, the master baiter’s gone!” to the tune of “Ding dong the Witch is Dead,” while I make popcorn. I dance with delight at my free evening at home. Jim suddenly emerges from his closet. He’s been hiding behind his wardrobe and wants to spring out and surprise me. Now he wants to know what I meant by “The master baiter” crack. He pulls out his stash of gay porno mags, stained with some odd smelling oils, and asks me if this is to what I am referring. I don’t know what to say. The greasy stained magazines flop around in his hands. I look at the greasy bottle of corn oil I used to make the popcorn. Was that a pubic hair stuck to the label?

April 23, 1984

Jim’s friend Rico, the drug dealer from Brazil, and his heroin-addicted girl friend, Sheila, need a place to stay. Jim lets them put a mattress on the kitchen floor. Jim is very helpful like that. Rico has a lot of phone calls to make to his drug-dealing friends. They come to the door and he leaves with them. Sal, from New Jersey, came by the other day and he seemed quite angry about something. Sorry I answered the door, really. But Rico and Sal went for a walk and worked it out. Afterward, Rico bought a bunch of shrimp and cooked them in water and beer. He insisted I eat with him. They tasted pretty good, once I realized they weren’t poisoned.

May 3, 1984

Rico’s girlfriend, Sheila, is feeling pretty sick. They sit in the bathtub together for hours sometimes; they take the phone in there and make business calls. I hear that Rico has offered Jim lots of money for my room, but Jim says not to worry, he wouldn’t kick me out. Although, he hints, the extra money would be nice.

The landlady came down and asked me for the rent today. Seems she hasn’t seen any money for a few months. I told her I just give my money to Jim. It’s his place. He pays the rent. (I guess not.) I haven’t seen Jim for a while to talk to him about it.

May 27, 1984

Rico and Sheila finally move out. Am seeing less and less of Jim, now. He lost his job at the good restaurant and now he’s working for a not-so-nice place on the West side. Makes less money. I have been talking to the landlady about letting me move into an empty apartment upstairs.

June 15, 1984

I finally have my own place. Up five floors, but it’s worth it. Two bedrooms, kitchen and a bath! Jim knocked on the door the other day, but I pretended I wasn’t home. He scares me now. Not like the person I met at all. That far away look in his eyes makes me think he is the loneliest person on Earth. But I’ve made up my mind I can’t help him. I need to live my own life.

July 2, 1984

They finally came and took Jim home today. He’d been unable to function for about a month. He was too afraid to leave the apartment. His sister and brother bought him a ticket and he’s gone. I don’t even know who’s in the apartment downstairs now. Some creepy guy he had move in a while ago. Poor Jim, all he wanted to do was be an actor.