Space Bus II: Danger Love

CHAPTER ONE

It's a Cupertino Yards T-2100, and it might as well be a giant metal catfish. This one is plummeting through raw atmosphere at 1,000 miles per hour.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience—we're now entering our final descent into Point Nomad." The pilot, Quentin, says through gritted teeth. "Please fasten your seatbelts and return your tray tables to their full upright positions." He grips the flight controls with three hands—two more than usually required. Quentin has eight hands total because he is an enormous spider. Well, he's at least half-spider. Quentin also has the torso of a silverback-gorilla. Quentin's genealogy is complicated. With a fourth hand, the pilot lets go of the microphone receiver dangling above his control hammock. The mic snaps back, swinging wildly above his head.

"High altitude winds...way more turbulent than projected." The co-pilot grates through his own clenched jaw. His name is Teddy, and for all intents-and-purposes he might as well be a capuchin monkey. A monkey in a royal blue blazer with two rows of shiny brass buttons running down the edge. The space bus quakes, groaning like it's about to separate violently along its thready metal seams. "I think we're upside down." Teddy says, his pink tongue protruding from between his teeth.

"What have I told you about that tongue thing?" Quentin asks as he stares at the display screen molded into the wall of the command deck. Teddy grunts, distracted. Command deck may be a little generous given it's rather cramped character, but this is what the room is called in the owner's manual. The manual contains a schematic of their ship, and on that schematic, the command deck is denoted by a tiny, cartoon steering wheel. There used to be signs bolted around the ship clearly identifying the passageways that lead to the command deck, but Quentin had the chief steward pry those off with a screwdriver years ago. It's not that Quentin doesn't like talking to his passengers; he just enjoys making them work for the interaction.

The command deck's display looks like the front windshield of an old truck. Since entering the incredibly turbulent atmosphere around Point Nomad, it's shown them nothing but the green-grey interior of an alien cloud. Finally, though, the nose of their space bus bursts through and they're free. Free and rocketing away at a terrifyingly incorrect angle.

"Welp," Quentin belches, forcefully swinging two levers to his left. Teddy flutters one of the pedals beneath his station and the bus levels out—upside down—just in time to skip across a massive sand dune. The ship sails like a flat rock over a still pond. A dozen more dunes rise into view.

"There it is." Teddy says. Quentin can see the bus terminal, tiny at this distance, nestled between the mountains of sand. Quentin twists a joystick and the boat rolls over and right side up.

"Uh-oh, we're coming in way too hot." Teddy says, tightening the straps on his safety-harness.

Quentin slams on the space brakes and the bus seems to collide mid-air with an invisible wall. He jerks another lever and the bus crashes belly-first onto the asphalt parking pad below. Despite their near textbook landing, both pilots hang in their seats at odd angles. The bus rocks and seems to roll across the tarmac slightly. Quentin presses a button and (belatedly) the bus's landing-struts deploy lifting the small spaceship into a half-sitting position. "Haha, no refunds today!" Quentin says, fear-sweat rolling down his hairy head. Teddy grips his face, wincing. "I hopthe not."

***

They watch the passengers depart. There aren't many getting off at Point Nomad, but the entire bus deboards temporarily to stretch their various legs, wings, and tentacles.

<WE ARE LEAVING IN EIGHT HOURS. IF YOU DO NOT RETURN IN TIME WE WILL LEAVE YOU. I WOULD LIKE TO LEAVE YOU.> The Chief Steward says as the passengers slide, glide, and stumble down the exit ramp. The Chief Steward is a robot named L-Roy, and it's the only robot Margot has ever seen not working for the galactic government, a.k.a the robotocracy.