Space Lanes

By Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

“Keerful with them chickens.” Jack McGuffin eyed Earl warily as he loaded up the final crate and closed the cargo hatch of the Mud Runner. “They’re priceless, you know.” He clasped my hand in his gnarled claw. “Swiped their mother from a giant back in my youth.”

I nodded politely, ignoring his senile ramblings. It’s bad business to upset a customer, especially one paying so well. I shot a glare at Earl’s back as he disappeared into the spaceship. How come I always had to deal with the crazy ones?

“Don’t you worry, Mister McGuffin,” I said, conjuring up an air of responsibility. “We’ll get your chickens safely to their new home.”

“Fine, fine.” He released my hand and I beat a hasty retreat to the cockpit where Earl was already firing up the engines.

The ancient hull plating shuddered and complained as I slid into the pilot’s seat. I had to wonder… why did I take this job?

Transport needed for golden chickens through Lupine Lane.

It had seemed like a good idea when I read the ad. Now that the lane loomed before us, the prestige seemed less worth it. Even a straight space lane could gut an unprepared craft trying to break the cosmic speed limit. This one switchbacked wildly and was so narrow we’d have a hard time avoiding anyone coming through from the other direction.

“Well—” I glanced at Earl. “Let’s take it nice and slow.”

“I believe the regulator is malfunctioning again.” Earl tapped a dial I’d been meaning to fix for a good dozen cycles. The needle swung wildly.

Great. Hopefully I wouldn’t need that device to navigate the death sentence in front of me.

I eased the throttle forward. One of my engines—probably the stars-blasted port one—made a noise like a sick duck trapped in a baby grand. Immediately afterward, three hundred golden chickens woke up in the cargo hold and started squawking for dear life.

I winced.

“Grab your boots,” I muttered.

My rusty bucket shot forward like a bat out of hell. With a wild shout, I seesawed on the throttle, trying to find a happy medium between sitting still and maximum thrust. Earl lit a cigar, his expression placid. I gritted my teeth. I’d told him a thousand times not to smoke in my rig.

The Runner shuddered as I wrestled with the controls and I chose to leave Earl alone. Might be the last one he ever smoked.

We stabilized and I flexed my tense fingers, trying to work out the stiffness. The chickens were starting to give me a headache. My copilot needed to get those birds quiet.

“Earl, go—” The first corner loomed ahead.

Cornering in a lane is tricky business, especially when your ship needs as many repairs as mine. The G-forces slammed into me, like someone trying to pull my eyeballs out through my nose.

“Might wanna ease back on the throttle, there, Blake,” Earl muttered.

I tried. The thrust reverser came off in my hand, and we went screaming full speed around the corner. Blackness crept in at the corners of my vision. I tried to screw the doggone thing back into the panel.

“Left turn ahead,” Earl commented. He studied the display layout of the lane.

I got the lever reinserted and eased it back, slowing into the next turn. Something thudded against the side of the ship.

I looked out the viewport and growled. “Starry-winged buzzard. Earl, get to the turret!”

“The correct nomenclature is space dragon.” Earl unclipped his harness and floated aft.

“I am not letting one of those creatures gobble up my ten thousand merits.” A serpentine tail flicked at the corner of my vision.

The Remington-4500 Quad Laser I’d just installed should do the trick. It was the only new piece of equipment I had. I’d bought it specifically for this job, and I’d blown nearly all my merits on it.

Sweat dripped into my eyes, but I couldn’t afford the luxury of wiping it away. I worked the controls, my ship zig-zagging sluggishly. I heaved on the throttle, but my port engine was still acting like a sick mongoose. The space dragon rammed us and we veered dangerously close to the edge of the lane.

“Take your time, Earl!” I shouted.

The laser hummed as it warmed up. The twinkle-faced lizard’s claws scraped along the side of my ship with a screech like a portal opening to the netherworld. Maybe it was. The chickens certainly thought so. Their hysterical clucking escalated to the level of possessed banshees.

The end of the lane shimmered ahead of us, a vivid pool of stars. The dragon darted in front of us, his mouth filling my view-port. I stared into the pulsing, scarlet maw. I could make out blue and yellow veins crisscrossing his snaky tongue. We’d had it. There wasn’t room to maneuver. As if sealing the inevitable, both my engines suddenly kicked into full burn. We hurtled toward the toothy gate.

A sound like thunder shuddered through the ship and blazing light drilled blinding spots across my vision as the Remington fired. The blast struck the space dragon head on, shoving it into the side of the lane. The lizard screamed and writhed as the lane eviscerated it.

Earl reappeared. “Remington’s fried.”

“After only one shot?”

“That’s what you get for rushing the order.” He chomped down on his cigar. “Should have gone with a Mossberg. They’re cheaper. And I could’ve used an upgrade to my pneumatic actuator.” He twisted his torso in demonstration, and I winced at the creaking of his gears.

We shot through the gate into open space. I wrestled the ship under control, breathed a sigh of relief, and glanced at Earl. He’d already powered himself down. Neither Lupine Lane nor space dragons could rattle my steely-nerved co-pilot.

I grinned. We were alive. Better yet, we were going to get paid.

Can you guess which song from the 1970's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jenelle Leanne Schmidt first fell in love with stories through her father’s voice reading books aloud each night. A relentless opener-of-doors in hopes of someday finding a passage to Narnia, it was only natural that she soon began making up fantastical realms of her own. Jenelle currently resides in the wintry tundra of Wisconsin —which she maintains is almost as good as Narnia — with her knight-in-shining armor and their four hobbits.

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