The Garbage Chronicles by Brian Herbert

said, holding his hand on his holstered service pistol.
    “God, it stinks in here!” Evans said. “Some kinda gas in that hole.”
    “Sounded like a big burp to me,” Javik said.
    As the crowd approached, Evans speculated that they looked like a bunch of costume-party goers. “Maybe they’re drunk,” she said.
    “They look like offbeat lawyers,” Javik said. “Look at the three-piece suits, briefcases, and gold watch chains.” He squinted. “Wait a minute,” he said.
    “Are those costumes?” Evans asked.
    “Exactly what I was wondering. I can’t tell.”
    The crowd became excited upon seeing Javik and Evans. They ran faster, pointing and waving white cards. As they neared, Javik realized they were business cards. And he realized something else.
    “They’re Fruit people!” Javik exclaimed.
    “Frumba hallinon?” an orange woman asked, looking up and extending a business card. She was the first to arrive. Javik noticed a small folding shovel on her hip, secured to her belt.
    Others arrived now, an endless variety of Fruit people, all dressed similarly and all waving business cards. “Frumba hallinon?” they asked. “Frumba hallinon?”
    “What the . . . ?”
    Javik fumbled with his language mixer pendant. It showed a red light. Then it beeped and the light became green.
    “Do you want legal advice?” the Fruit creatures asked. They still spoke in their native tongue, but now Javik understood.
    “Where are we?” Evans asked. “In Glitterland?”
    Soon the Fruits were clamoring to reach the visitors from Earth. Since the open hatch was high off the ground at midships, the Fruits had to pile on top of one another, just as they had done earlier to topple the ship. They fought to be first, pushing and kicking their brethren with complete abandon.
    One watermelon man reached the top, where he hung desperately to the hatchway deck. Stretching to reach up, he pressed a business card into Javik’s palm. Javik used his mixer to read it as the fellow was dragged down the heap to the ground. The pile fell now, and the Fruits scrambled to rebuild it.

    Wily Watermelon
    Attorney at Law,
    non compos mentis

    Javik flipped the card away, and watched the wind take it. Below, the Fruit people were clearing their ranks, allowing a tall pineapple man through. Obviously, he was someone in authority. Dressed differently from the others but carrying a similar folding shovel on his hip, the pineapple man’s most distinctive article of attire was a red helicopter beanie with a bright yellow plastic rotor that spun as he walked.
    A murmuring passed through the crowd. The Fruit lawyers who had been piling up retreated, nursing their wounds.
    When he reached the front of the multitude, the pineapple man extended his arms to each side, gazing up at Javik and Evans. “You there!” he called out in a loud, syrupy voice. “Identify yourselves!” Drat! he thought. This had better not interrupt my plans for tonight!
    Javik gave names, then said, “We are in the American Federation of Freeness Space Patrol. From Earth.” He wrinkled his brow, recalling the dancing pineapple man he had seen when he was half asleep in the videodome—just before Wizzy’s entrance. Every event after the time Wizzy appeared seemed unreal to Javik. But then he recalled Wizzy slamming into his hand to prove he was awake. That hurt like hell, Javik thought.
    “I am Prince Peter Pineapple,” the pineapple man announced proudly. “Of the Royal Family of Cork.” He squinted in the light of three suns which were low in the sky to the west.
    “This place is called Cork?” Javik asked. He saw Wizzy scoot up at the prince’s feet, panting heavily. Wizzy was dark blue with a thin layer of dust on his body.
    “It is our planet’s name,” Prince Pineapple explained. “Sixth planet in the Triad Solar System.”
    “We call it the Aluminum Starfield,” Javik said.
    Prince Pineapple smoothed his elegant leaf headless with one hand. “We know of