The Star Collector Read online

  THE STAR COLLECTOR

  MATTHEW WILLIAM

  2019

  1

  In a flash of light, life was wiped from our universe.

  For a brief moment, there was nothing.

  Then, quietly and invisibly, life began on a pale blue dot three spots out from our sun.

  A few billion years later, a sheriff and his newly appointed deputy sat in a diner overlooking the stars. Bacon and coffee aromas permeated the room. Their booth was set next to the window and the sheriff was careful not to sit too close to the glass, the cold seeping in chilled the parts of his wrist and neck that weren’t covered by his starchy uniform.

  At 17:35 the nighttime lights flickered to life, illuminating the establishment since the ancient alien ruins were blocking the nearby star.

  “You know what wiped them all out?” Tammy, the deputy, asked. “It was my teammate. He had gone in there and killed the entire enemy squad all by himself. And that, to answer your question, is how I won an E-Sports Tournament.”

  The sheriff stared out the window at the still, silent night of the asteroid field. Of all the systems in all the galaxies, filled with wonder and intrigue, he was stuck here – listening to the exploits of a video game champ. And on a Friday night, no less.

  “That was a lot more detail than I was expecting,” he announced.

  “And I’ll tell you specifically why we won that game,” the deputy continued.

  “Oh, great, there’s more…”

  A Martian tug ship cruised past the diner and caught his eye. That could mean trouble, but he decided to ignore it.

  The deputy leaned in over the table and lowered her voice. “I’d memorized the manual beforehand, so I knew all the map’s secrets. Plain and simple. It was like shooting ducks in a barrel.”

  “How devious of you,” the sheriff said. It was now certain, this was going to be a long season. “And for future reference, it’s ‘like shooting fish in a barrel’ not ‘ducks’.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Why would there be fish in a barrel?”

  “For the same reason there’d be ducks in a barrel – it’s a saying with no grounding in reality. Like ‘it’s raining cats and dogs’ or ‘they lived happily ever after’.”

  “Oh… I see,” the girl said, looking down awkwardly at the table.

  Whoops. That was what happened when he tried too hard to prove a point. It exposed some of his wounded idealism normally hiding beneath the surface.

  Eager for distraction, he glanced at the gadget strapped to his wrist. To the untrained eye, it could have been mistaken for a watch, but to the perceptive it was clearly a century-old Saxon Starsailor’s Compass, the envy of every collector in the quadrant. As usual, its arrow pointed towards Bolstra 5. He gazed out the window to see if he could spot that familiar star in space. He could, and the memories came flooding back.

  Her eyes, her body’s warmth, the feel of her lips against his.

  “So when do you think we can go and check out the ruins?” the deputy asked.

  “Never,” the sheriff answered, glaring out of the side of his eye. The ruins weren’t dangerous or off limits. He simply wanted to prove a point – she was unwanted here.

  Why had they assigned him a deputy? Things had been going fine. And Sector 121 wasn’t the type of place that needed a large police force.

  It was a quiet little community, sitting at a crossroads and bordering eight factions: the Martians, the Japanese Space Fleet, Lunar Federation, People’s Republic of Congo, Rheinland, Unicorp, Panda Cola Company and the United States of America. Sector 121 sat like a matchbox in between them. The diner, the alien ruins and a visitor’s center were all within the little neutral zone.

  The diner was, by far, the liveliest of the bunch. And being a Friday night the place was packed.

  Truck drivers, cabbies, prospectors, immigrants – every sort of desperate person you could imagine was to be found there – all looking to trade and sell their antiques and collector’s items.

  Now, a diner wasn’t normally the place you’d go to sell antiques, the risk of getting syrup on your piece was far too great. But the Cosmo Diner was different from other diners in the fact that the Cosmo Diner had the one appraiser this side of the Chinese border that everybody knew and respected.

  Joe Corbit was his name and his word was taken as gospel in these parts. They said he had learned at the feet of the great Gary Shenzhen, the famed Chinese antiquarian.

  Many, however, just considered that a myth.

  Joe noticed the queue at the neon bar was getting kind of long so he signaled for the first person in line to step forward.

  Patricia, a young miner with an auburn braid and Jackson Pollock freckles approached, carrying an old trinket in a cardboard box. Her steps were slow over the smooth plastic floor, as if she was nervous for this meeting.

  “Terry Galen is looking to sell this,” she said when she finally arrived, and set the piece on the table before the sheriff. “For 300 credits.”

  “And?” Joe asked. He always wanted to know what they wanted to know before he went to work.

  “Well, is it real?”

  “It’s not worth 300 credits, I’ll tell you that much,” Joe said, examining the item. It was an old steel mapping matrix used by asteroid miners from the turn of the century, meant to scan large swaths of space for valuable metals. With a twinge of excitement, he spotted the fog on the glass display. That was a dead giveaway – the piece was fake. Real mapping matrices were sealed tight with atomic compression.

  “It’s a copy,” Joe said, setting the item down and looking up at the girl.

  She scrunched her nose.

  Joe scribbled his prognosis and signature into his little appraisal notepad, tore along the perforated edge and handed it over.

  This part of the job gave him no joy whatsoever, when an item went from real to fake. To see a smile leave the face, the hope of a sale evaporate and the magic that once imbued a promising piece vanish into thin air. It was, on a very small scale, devastating. But it was a necessary evil, since truth was more important than happiness. In fact, Joe had come to realize that the two were enemies. Happiness was being in the arms of a lover, truth was knowing she didn’t love you back.

  Patricia took the box and stared at the now worthless piece. “I almost wish I hadn’t asked. I don’t find these so often.” She paused for a moment. “Do you think I should buy it anyway?”

  “Why... would you want to buy a fake?” Joe had never been asked buying advice on an established counterfeit before.

  “Nobody would know but me, right?”

  “I... guess,” Joe said, completely confused.

  The girl nodded and slouched off with the trinket, back to the bar where Terry Galen was waiting.

  Joe watched her go. It was bad news for both the buyer and the seller, but ultimately good news for him. You see, he had never been fooled by a fake, and his secret was simple – he assumed everything was fake. Every item he came across was met with a skeptical eye and a suspicious mind and sooner or later the truth came to light. And with each and every correct appraisal, he solidified his role as king of this place. It made him feel important – like he mattered in the grand scheme of things. And that tricked his mind into thinking that his life, the universe and everything had some sort of meaning. Joe was content with that trade-off.

  “What is it you do here, exactly?” Tammy, the deputy, asked.

  “We eat here. It’s a diner,” Joe, the sheriff, answered.

  “No, I mean, what was that all about – with her?” She nodded to the girl who was now buying the fake trinket for cheap.

  “Oh, that. I give advice on antiques
. It’s sort of a hobby of mine.”

  “Uh-huh. And do they pay you for this advice?” Tammy asked.

  “That’s a strangely specific question to ask.”

  “It’s a strangely specific hobby to have.”

  “It’s not really any of your business what types of hobbies I have. And no, they don’t pay me.”

  “So it’s not exactly a source of income, per se…” Tammy stated.

  “No, it’s not...” Joe answered. He was beginning to suspect why they had assigned him a deputy all of a sudden.

  A middle-aged woman with problems of her own came by to take their orders. Joe noticed it wasn’t the usual waitress.

  “Where’s Nancy?” he asked.

  “She’s got a cold,” the waitress answered.

  “Well, I’ll have the usual,” Joe said, handing her the menu. “If you were Nancy you’d know that’s the Jupiler Chili.”

  “I’ll take a mental note,” she responded.

  The Jupiler chili was delicious and it slowly killed him. Joe loved it for both reasons.

  The waitress turned to the deputy.

  Tammy poured over the menu, a look on her face of someone receiving bad news. “Are the sprouts in the sprout salad organic?”

  The waitress chewed her gum. “No idea.”

  “’Cause I don’t want it if they’re not,” Tammy said.

  The woman answered with a shrug.

  Joe sighed. “You know we’re about a hundred million miles from the closest patch of dirt, right?”

  “I’m aware of that,” Tammy said.

  “And it matters to you that the sprouts are organic?”

  “I don’t want frankenstein sprouts.”

  “What difference does it make?” Joe asked, as if the words hurt him physically to say.

  “I care about what I put into my body,” Tammy replied, as if it hurt physically to be questioned.

  Joe stared at the deputy like she was speaking a foreign language. “You realize it’s a miracle that they’ve even come this far?”

  “That hardly qualifies as a miracle, Joe,” Tammy said. “And in any case, I care about my health. You should too.”

  Joe laughed. He took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and was about to give a demonstration in how little he cared about his health.

  “You can’t smoke in here,” the waitress said flatly.

  Joe stared at her, long enough for her to know he was annoyed, then pointed to the line cook in the kitchen who worked with a lit cigar clamped between his teeth. “What about him?”

  “He’s back there under the fan,” said the waitress. “You’re out here and my son’s behind you trying to do his homework.”

  Joe glanced back at the kid who was blowing the paper off the plastic straws in the next booth.

  The waitress gave Joe a fake smile and turned back to Tammy. “Come on, this isn’t life or death. I have to have everything cleaned up before the transport comes.”

  Joe yanked the menu from Tammy’s hands and gave it to the waitress. “She’ll have what I’m having.”

  “Stellar,” the waitress said and took off for the kitchen. She stopped at the door. “Max, homework!”

  The kid jumped to attention, dropping his straw and picking up a pencil.

  “These people out here don’t handle strangers very well,” Joe whispered to Tammy. “So try acting less strange.”

  Tammy nodded. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, the E-Sports Tournament. As I said, I had read through the manual carefully...”

  Joe’s eyes glossed over and stared off into the diner. Suddenly, a familiar face came into view. “Oh, geez,” he blurted out and reflexively slouched down in the booth.

  “What’s wrong?” Tammy asked, glancing in the direction Joe had been looking.

  “It’s Deniz McGee.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A guy I hate.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s happy literally all the time.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “You’d change your mind if you met him.”

  “Do you want to leave?” Tammy asked.

  Joe thought for a moment – leaving would surely draw Deniz’s attention. He glanced at his starsailor’s compass. It informed him that it had been 15 hours since he’d last eaten. The Jupiler chili was too good to pass up. His stomach rumbled, indicating its vote to stay. “We’ll eat fast.”

  As if on cue, the waitress brought out two orders of steaming hot chili. Joe pulled his bowl in close and inhaled. Kessel spices. Peppers. Tomatoes. Argonaut beef. It reminded him of home – back where the air wasn’t recycled and the gravity wasn’t artificial. The scent traveled through his olfactory system, triggered the memory region of his brain and pushed a smile out through his face.

  “Yuck,” said Tammy, lifting her spoon to inspect the red mush. “You actually like this?”

  Joe glared at the deputy. He decided that he was going to ignore her for the rest of the day.

  “It’s too unhealthy,” Tammy said, shaking her head and pushing her bowl away.

  Joe slammed his fist down on the table. People around the diner turned to see where the sound of rattling silverware had come from. He glanced at them, red with embarrassment, then looked back to the girl.

  “Listen kid, every single thing we eat is unhealthy. Sooner or later it’s gonna kill you. There’s no way around that, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can...”

  He stopped when he noticed a grinning idiot in genie pants standing next to him.

  “Hello, Joe,” Deniz McGee said.

  Joe turned. He could see it in the man's eyes – he was keenly aware of how annoying he was. The hair sitting on the top of his head like an uncoiled spring was a testament to that.

  “I knew I’d find you here.”

  “Holy heck, it’s a ghost,” Joe said. “I thought you were dead.”

  “You only wish. When’d you become a cop?”

  “Sheriff technically, and a few years ago. But you know what, Deniz? I was just about to go and have a smoke.” Joe stood up to leave the booth. “So I really don’t have the time today.”

  “Too bad, ‘cause I’ve got a very special item traveling with me,” Deniz said. “It would make a real good evaluation for your portfolio.”

  “I’m not in the mood,” Joe said.

  As he turned to leave, an item on the other side of the diner caught his eye and froze him dead in his tracks. A muscular man in a too-tight Armani suit was showing off a blaster to some young party girls at the bar.

  “It’s from the Alpha Centauri colony,” the man bragged.

  “You see,” Deniz went on, seeing Joe had been hooked. “It’s a very interesting item, brought here by a friend of mine looking to make a trade.”

  That was Joe’s weakness, the Alpha Centauri colony, simply because it was home. And being out on the fringes of the galaxy for so long had made him ache for the place. His senses were now hyper aware to catch any mention of Alpha Centauri whether in print or spoken word. It was as much a liability as it was an asset – he’d often miss turns while driving because the radio made a passing mention of his home sector. However, it also meant that Joe could spot a fake from a light-year away.

  He swept in and snatched the blaster from the muscular man’s hands.

  “I hate to break it to you, bud, but this ain’t from Alpha Centuari. The brass barrel should be more blue than green, because of the nitrates in the atmosphere. And this grip design wasn’t implemented until 2220. And last but not least, the wearing of the corners here, means they used carbonized aluminum polymers, not titanium. All of which points to the fact that this wasn’t made on Alpha Centauri, it was made on Kulpe, which means it’s more or less worthless.”

  The muscular man looked like he was about to cry. Joe now noticed the tear tattoos he had below his eyes. “The guy who sold it to me said it was genuine.”

  “The guy who sold it to you lied,” J
oe replied, handing the blaster back to him. “Or he didn’t know the difference. Either way… it’s not real.”

  “Who says I can trust you anyway?”

  “You ever hear of Gary Shenzhen?” Joe asked.

  There was a gasp from the old antique collectors waiting at the bar. Was the myth about to be confirmed?

  “Well, let’s just say me and him are partners, of sorts,” Joe announced.

  The onlookers cooed in astonishment. The truth was even better than the legend!

  The young party girls who had previously been impressed by the blaster turned away snickering.

  The muscular man stood there, a scowl on his face. Deniz McGee approached, slow clapping like a smug prick.

  “You and Shenzhen are partners now?” he asked.

  “Of sorts,” Joe answered.

  “Your legend grows,” Deniz said with a smile. “I want you to meet my friend, Alistair Mezza.”

  Joe’s stomach tried to climb out through his throat. “Nice to meet you,” he managed to grunt.

  If he had known he had been appraising an item for Alistair Mezza, the infamous mob hitman, he would have at least worked some nice words about the blaster into his critique. In a wave of horror he realized that the firearm was still in fine, working condition.

  “I’m not a professional though,” Joe added, as an afterthought. “So my opinion is more or less worthless.”

  “Deniz told me your word is gold,” Alistair said.

  “Deniz exaggerates. I’m guessing half the time.”

  Joe noticed the old collectors at the bar looking on in shock. His reputation would surely take a hit, but he couldn't evaluate antiques if he was dead.

  “And you never said Joe was a cop,” Alistair Mezza said, turning to Deniz.

  “Sheriff actually,” Joe interjected.

  “This was news to me as well,” Deniz said.

  “Is this the guy you wanted me to get an evaluation from?” Alistair asked.

  “Fellas, why don’t you just take a seat and we can settle all this in a moment,” Joe said. He pointed back to his deputy in the booth. “I’m in the middle of a very important business meeting.”