An Old Friend
By Yitzchak Friedman
July 15, 2023
July 15, 2023
I wake up and I’m not in space anymore. I didn’t dream this time. The approaching spaceport is shrouded in a haze of billowing dust, freighters drift by my window, their beams of light piercing the darkness below. Another planet, another job, it’s becoming a blur. I see the city as we slowly descend onto a flashing landing pad. A rambling sprawl of ramshackle houses bake under the waning sun, its fading rays of light cast an orangish hue over the city amidst an endless desert. The ship I’m on touches down softly on the hard metal surface, all the other passengers disembark into the scorching heat. I stand on top of the stairs for a moment feeling the thick humid air settle over me. I don’t have to go, I could leave. I don’t, I never do. A customs agent is waiting for me at the end of the platform.
“Name and I.D please?”
“Fred Allen.” Fake name, fake I.D. He squints at my I.D, his face shiny with sweat. My hand closes over my knife, it's cold.
“You're good to go,” he says. My hand unclenches, a little part of me is disappointed.
A ship rumbles overhead spraying sand across the port’s surface, my eyes sting as sand swirls into them. I pass by a sea of faces in a white terminal, just blurs with suitcases. Two clear glass doors open, I step out into the city. The air shimmers and glistens with a sweltering intensity. Junk ships float above the maze of narrow streets, they coast silently into the dunes of the desert and out of sight. A small barge screeches to a halt in front of me, at the tiller is a teenage boy.
“Mr. Allen?” he calls, a grin plastered on his deeply tanned face. My guide. I nod, he pulls the tiller down lowering his hovering ship for me. I sit beside him, my hair rippling in the rush of air as we zoom down a narrow dirt road. Single story faded pastel houses line the winding avenue, children scatter before us, laughing, shouting, kicking a ball. In a market, sellers with stalls full of exotic bright-colored fruit cry out their wares in strange tongues. The boy talks, I listen.
“The city is changing Mr. Allen. Five years ago before the spaceport, there were no guns, no drugs, no opportunity. Now we are civilized like you.” We reach the slums, the junk ships don’t come here, his barge soars over piles of refuse scattered across the unpaved street. “You have a good reputation here, they say you are the fastest with the knife.” I shrug. The sky is getting darker. We pull up in front of a semi-circle of small domed shaped houses, the day's last light casts long shadows over us.
I hop off the floating ship, the boy lights a cigarette. “One day I will be like you and travel to hundreds of planets, I will never have to live in this hellhole again.” His eyes are filled with a burning longing. You won’t make it kid I want to say. I can see him dead in a ditch in five years, shot in the back. Another dead slum kid on another third-world planet. At least he’ll be better off than me. I walk toward the house and knock on its weathered door.
A gruff voice. “Who’s there?”
“An old friend.” The door opens a crack, an eye peers out.
“Oh, it's you! Come in, it's been so long.”An old man with a graying beard opens the door, a smile on his lined face. We embrace, his arms are calloused and scarred. I wipe off the sand from my boots on a dusty mat.
“I never thought I would see you again. What brings you to this wasteland?” he says as I follow him into a decrepit living room. A fan spins around lazily on the peeling ceiling, gently blowing hot air around the room. Somewhere in the house, a piano is playing. I sit on a couch, my gun and knife press painfully into my back.
I came for you Faruk,” I say. There is a picture of me on his table, I’m grinning stupidly with the rest of our platoon. It was before our first jump, none of us had died yet.
“For me?” he chuckles incredulously. “I doubt that.” He hands me a cup of tea, I take a sip and burn my mouth. We sit across from each other, there is no awkwardness in the long silence. My hand taps reflexively to the music distantly humming, Faruk picks up the picture, his eyes look wistful.
“You guys were my best platoon, in a way I wish I didn’t retire.” He smiles and points to a red-headed soldier with his arm around me. “What was his nickname again?”
“Duck.”
“Oh yeah, duck.” He shakes his head. “How could I forget, the way he used to walk.” We laugh together at the shared memory. He wipes his eyes. “Whatever happened to him?”
I look upwards at the fan. “Dead, his chute malfunctioned on his last jump.” The picture falls to the floor, it flutters away in the fan's warm breeze, I glimpse my friends' smiling faces before they vanish into the whirling dust.
Faruk sighs and stands up.
“Follow me,” he says. In the next room, a young man is strapped into a wheelchair, his eyes are unfocused, spittle dribbles down his shirt. An old woman is playing the piano, her eyes are closed. He gestures at the man.
A bitter voice. “This is what’s left of my son. A gas explosion over Wallek’s fourth moon, it was his first deployment.” His voice trembles as he gently strokes his son’s head. “Why did we go to war, my friend? Why did we never question the things we did?”
I don’t know what to say.
“Music is the only thing that calms him, he has nightmares often, he screams that he’s on fire, that he’s burning. The boy’s eyelids flicker. “At least he doesn’t have to live with the things that we’ve done.” His wife begins to sing hauntingly in an unfamiliar language. “I work in the trash processor in the desert, it is harsh but it helps me forget.” On a table, a butterfly soars around fruitlessly in an overturned glass vase.
“I never retired, I’m with intelligence now,” I say quietly.
His face spasms. “You’re one of them! Why are you here?”
My stomach clenches, the nausea starts.
“You know why I’m here.” Sweat burns my armpits, the boy gurgles happily. Faruk backs away slowly, terror grips his face. He runs to the door, my knife is faster. His wife continues to sing. I press my gun to the back of her head. My hand shakes, I pull the trigger and blow her brains onto the piano. The music stops, the boy begins to moan. I stare down the barrel of the gun in my outstretched arm. All I hear is the whirring of the fan, the boy has blue eyes. Fuck me. I kill the boy. Fuck this job. His wheelchair flies backward from the force of the gunshot, his mouth is frozen agape. He crashes onto the floor smashing over a table, from the wreckage the butterfly flutters upwards. It circles me excitedly and lands on my hand. We gaze at each other.
“Go away,” I breathe. It quivers slightly and glides out a window. I’m alone now. I wrench my knife out of the corpse's back, a drop of blood falls to the floor, a single tear of mine joins it. He was a good friend.
I go outside and the heat is gone, a cool nighttime breeze blows onto my face. I glance upwards at the starry dark sky, somewhere beyond the city a butterfly flies through a never-ending desert. My guide is waiting for me, his headlight flickers in the blackness.
“Is it done?” he asks. I nod. We speed through empty streets, the wind is icy now. The boy talks, I don’t listen. The last cries of the fruit sellers echo faintly in the desolate market, their stalls are dark and empty. The children have gone, they aren’t playing anymore, only a solitary ball remains in the sandy alleyway. I like the bitter cold, it’s painful. Above me, the last junker carries its load to the processor in the wastes, they’re one worker short. We reach the spaceport, white light emanates from the glowing doorway. I say goodbye to the boy, he nods and streaks away into the murky horizon. The terminal is deserted, white floors, white ceiling, white walls, I pass dozens of T.V screens, just blurs. I brace myself to the lament of the baying gale as I cross landing pads with blinking strobe lights. I think about all the people I’ve killed, I hope my ship home crashes. Why do I survive when so many better people have gone, I look at the picture I took from the house. A splotch of blood covers my younger self, the others are all happy, all dead. A cargo ship lets out a mournful blare as it takes off and roars over me into space. I have a vision, that I quit, that I work on a cargo ship that soars around the galaxy. I have friends, maybe even a family, one day when I retire I’ll sit on the beach and watch the waves crash ceaselessly into the sand. The vision is gone, swept away by the merciless wind. I board my ship resignedly and stare out the window, I see the city sleeping amid a barren waste as we shoot off into the atmosphere. I go to sleep. This time I hope I dream.
“Name and I.D please?”
“Fred Allen.” Fake name, fake I.D. He squints at my I.D, his face shiny with sweat. My hand closes over my knife, it's cold.
“You're good to go,” he says. My hand unclenches, a little part of me is disappointed.
A ship rumbles overhead spraying sand across the port’s surface, my eyes sting as sand swirls into them. I pass by a sea of faces in a white terminal, just blurs with suitcases. Two clear glass doors open, I step out into the city. The air shimmers and glistens with a sweltering intensity. Junk ships float above the maze of narrow streets, they coast silently into the dunes of the desert and out of sight. A small barge screeches to a halt in front of me, at the tiller is a teenage boy.
“Mr. Allen?” he calls, a grin plastered on his deeply tanned face. My guide. I nod, he pulls the tiller down lowering his hovering ship for me. I sit beside him, my hair rippling in the rush of air as we zoom down a narrow dirt road. Single story faded pastel houses line the winding avenue, children scatter before us, laughing, shouting, kicking a ball. In a market, sellers with stalls full of exotic bright-colored fruit cry out their wares in strange tongues. The boy talks, I listen.
“The city is changing Mr. Allen. Five years ago before the spaceport, there were no guns, no drugs, no opportunity. Now we are civilized like you.” We reach the slums, the junk ships don’t come here, his barge soars over piles of refuse scattered across the unpaved street. “You have a good reputation here, they say you are the fastest with the knife.” I shrug. The sky is getting darker. We pull up in front of a semi-circle of small domed shaped houses, the day's last light casts long shadows over us.
I hop off the floating ship, the boy lights a cigarette. “One day I will be like you and travel to hundreds of planets, I will never have to live in this hellhole again.” His eyes are filled with a burning longing. You won’t make it kid I want to say. I can see him dead in a ditch in five years, shot in the back. Another dead slum kid on another third-world planet. At least he’ll be better off than me. I walk toward the house and knock on its weathered door.
A gruff voice. “Who’s there?”
“An old friend.” The door opens a crack, an eye peers out.
“Oh, it's you! Come in, it's been so long.”An old man with a graying beard opens the door, a smile on his lined face. We embrace, his arms are calloused and scarred. I wipe off the sand from my boots on a dusty mat.
“I never thought I would see you again. What brings you to this wasteland?” he says as I follow him into a decrepit living room. A fan spins around lazily on the peeling ceiling, gently blowing hot air around the room. Somewhere in the house, a piano is playing. I sit on a couch, my gun and knife press painfully into my back.
I came for you Faruk,” I say. There is a picture of me on his table, I’m grinning stupidly with the rest of our platoon. It was before our first jump, none of us had died yet.
“For me?” he chuckles incredulously. “I doubt that.” He hands me a cup of tea, I take a sip and burn my mouth. We sit across from each other, there is no awkwardness in the long silence. My hand taps reflexively to the music distantly humming, Faruk picks up the picture, his eyes look wistful.
“You guys were my best platoon, in a way I wish I didn’t retire.” He smiles and points to a red-headed soldier with his arm around me. “What was his nickname again?”
“Duck.”
“Oh yeah, duck.” He shakes his head. “How could I forget, the way he used to walk.” We laugh together at the shared memory. He wipes his eyes. “Whatever happened to him?”
I look upwards at the fan. “Dead, his chute malfunctioned on his last jump.” The picture falls to the floor, it flutters away in the fan's warm breeze, I glimpse my friends' smiling faces before they vanish into the whirling dust.
Faruk sighs and stands up.
“Follow me,” he says. In the next room, a young man is strapped into a wheelchair, his eyes are unfocused, spittle dribbles down his shirt. An old woman is playing the piano, her eyes are closed. He gestures at the man.
A bitter voice. “This is what’s left of my son. A gas explosion over Wallek’s fourth moon, it was his first deployment.” His voice trembles as he gently strokes his son’s head. “Why did we go to war, my friend? Why did we never question the things we did?”
I don’t know what to say.
“Music is the only thing that calms him, he has nightmares often, he screams that he’s on fire, that he’s burning. The boy’s eyelids flicker. “At least he doesn’t have to live with the things that we’ve done.” His wife begins to sing hauntingly in an unfamiliar language. “I work in the trash processor in the desert, it is harsh but it helps me forget.” On a table, a butterfly soars around fruitlessly in an overturned glass vase.
“I never retired, I’m with intelligence now,” I say quietly.
His face spasms. “You’re one of them! Why are you here?”
My stomach clenches, the nausea starts.
“You know why I’m here.” Sweat burns my armpits, the boy gurgles happily. Faruk backs away slowly, terror grips his face. He runs to the door, my knife is faster. His wife continues to sing. I press my gun to the back of her head. My hand shakes, I pull the trigger and blow her brains onto the piano. The music stops, the boy begins to moan. I stare down the barrel of the gun in my outstretched arm. All I hear is the whirring of the fan, the boy has blue eyes. Fuck me. I kill the boy. Fuck this job. His wheelchair flies backward from the force of the gunshot, his mouth is frozen agape. He crashes onto the floor smashing over a table, from the wreckage the butterfly flutters upwards. It circles me excitedly and lands on my hand. We gaze at each other.
“Go away,” I breathe. It quivers slightly and glides out a window. I’m alone now. I wrench my knife out of the corpse's back, a drop of blood falls to the floor, a single tear of mine joins it. He was a good friend.
I go outside and the heat is gone, a cool nighttime breeze blows onto my face. I glance upwards at the starry dark sky, somewhere beyond the city a butterfly flies through a never-ending desert. My guide is waiting for me, his headlight flickers in the blackness.
“Is it done?” he asks. I nod. We speed through empty streets, the wind is icy now. The boy talks, I don’t listen. The last cries of the fruit sellers echo faintly in the desolate market, their stalls are dark and empty. The children have gone, they aren’t playing anymore, only a solitary ball remains in the sandy alleyway. I like the bitter cold, it’s painful. Above me, the last junker carries its load to the processor in the wastes, they’re one worker short. We reach the spaceport, white light emanates from the glowing doorway. I say goodbye to the boy, he nods and streaks away into the murky horizon. The terminal is deserted, white floors, white ceiling, white walls, I pass dozens of T.V screens, just blurs. I brace myself to the lament of the baying gale as I cross landing pads with blinking strobe lights. I think about all the people I’ve killed, I hope my ship home crashes. Why do I survive when so many better people have gone, I look at the picture I took from the house. A splotch of blood covers my younger self, the others are all happy, all dead. A cargo ship lets out a mournful blare as it takes off and roars over me into space. I have a vision, that I quit, that I work on a cargo ship that soars around the galaxy. I have friends, maybe even a family, one day when I retire I’ll sit on the beach and watch the waves crash ceaselessly into the sand. The vision is gone, swept away by the merciless wind. I board my ship resignedly and stare out the window, I see the city sleeping amid a barren waste as we shoot off into the atmosphere. I go to sleep. This time I hope I dream.
Yitzchak Friedman is a person (allegedly) who lives in the world. He does not believe in astrology.