Godot Isn’t Coming – Eric Del Carlo

Godot Isn’t Coming

by Eric Del Carlo

The purple jungle was eating us alive. The Gummi-wummies loved steamy, crawling planets like this.

“I’ve said it before—” Hitchcock started in.

“And you’re saying it yet again.”

“—it’s an unlucky name for a ship.”

“Not a ship,” I pointed out, as we slogged on through damp, infested purple fronds. “A bugboat. Godot is alive.”

“Yeah. Alive and late! We signaled for pickup”—Hitch untwisted his arm from a vine and looked at his wrist chrono—”eight hours ago. Eight! If this jungle doesn’t swallow us, the Gummi headhunters are going to find us. And after they chop off our heads—”

“It doesn’t really matter what happens after that, does it?”

I tried to concentrate on being annoyed with Hitch. It was better than being scared. But he was right—this was a hell of a pickle. Godot, a sentient Aklaaktite bugboat, had contracted us to come to this jungle world of Meeloon, so to track down a treasure it keenly wanted. The Orb of Oshasinto. I know, I know—I always thought it was a made-up story too. A gem the size of a soccer ball, with a thousand facets and flawless color, so beautiful it could—literally—break your heart. Godot had told us the Orb was on Meeloon. The bugboat had picked us up from Rusty’s Port and transported us here. We had searched the site where the gem was supposed to be, an abandoned damaged temple of some sort, and come up empty. Now we wanted off this planet. But Godot wasn’t responding to our hails for retrieval.

We toiled on. Higher, rockier terrain lay to the north. We figured a better elevation would boost our signal. . .which tells you we were desperate enough to believe in fairy tales.

“You ever notice,” I mused aloud, picking local mosquitoes off my face, “how we never seem to finish a job?”

“C’mon, Matchstick. Don’t start.”

“Oh, we start just fine. I’m talking about follow-through, about completion. I think maybe you and I have been playacting for the past five years. We call ourselves adventurers. Daredevil spacers. Mercenary treasure-seekers.”

“That’s what it says on our calling cards,” said Hitchcock as a fat purple leaf smacked his cheek.

“Right,” I muttered. “We sure talk the talk. . .”

“Don’t get gloomy.”

Hitch was my friend. He knew my penchant for despair. I knew he could get hysterical at the drop of a hat. I also knew we really did have a problem with finishing jobs. It was a reputation that had kept us out of the big leagues of starfaring adventurers. That was too bad, since I knew we had real talents.

The mountains stayed in the distance, no closer than they’d seemed an hour ago. We had steered around the tree-house villages of the Gummi-wummies, who were a colonizing race which maintained a tradition of primitivism.

“It’s an unlucky name,” Hitchcock insisted, increasingly distraught.

“Because of that Shakespeare play?” I finally thought to ask.

“Shakespeare?”

“Yeah. ‘Cast off thy colored nightie’ and all that.”

Hitch gave me a disgusted look. “It’s ‘cast off thy nighted color.’ And I’m not talking about Shakespeare.”

I looked up at the soupy sky, wondering what had happened to the bugboat. Some spacers refused to travel between the stars in the belly of a living creature. But the vacuum-dwelling, insectoid-like Aklaaktite had proved to be a fair hand at pinochle.

“We’re waiting,” Hitch said, voice breaking, “and Godot isn’t coming!”

I put a hand suddenly to the arm of his slimed enviro-suit. “Hold on,” I whispered urgently. “You hear that?”

Hitchcock’s eyes widened fearfully. “Is somebody. . .a-wassailing?”

As it happened, no, nobody was a-wassailing. We soon came to the edge of a huge clearing in the jungle, one where a vast number of Gummi-wummies had gathered. They were singing, and it did sound a little like ancient Earth holiday carols. But something else was afoot here.

It looked like a massive ceremony. Probably the populations of a dozen villages had been emptied into this deliberately cleared, open area. At the center stood a rough pyramid built from loose stones, around which a cabal of robed figures milled. The whole assemblage was chanting and intoning.

Hitch and I were still well back in the trees, our enviro-suits in chameleon mode. If any of the Gummis had spotted us, they would already be coming after our heads; therefore, we were as yet unseen. I meant to keep it that way as I watched the ritual, fascinated.

The crowd of jelly-bodied creatures sang out chant after chant, as the robed ones around the pyramid moved in ever more elaborate patterns. The deserted temple we’d explored earlier had had a pyramid at its center too. Participants in the rite were still arriving, pouring in from the surrounding jungle growth. Hitch and I stayed stock-still, hopefully appearing as nothing more than innocuous purple blobs. There was no question of continuing on to the mountains just now. We would have to wait this out.

An elbow nudged me. In a soft, quavery voice Hitch said, “Match—tell me you see that. Tell me I’m not having a fever dream.”

I followed his eyes. And I saw. A procession was coming in from the east, costumed figures bearing a kind of platform. Atop it was a large, glowing, golden object. Light shot from it in all directions. The Gummi-wummies prostrated themselves as it passed. It was being borne toward the pyramid at the middle of the clearing.

“The Orb!” I nearly exclaimed, remembering to whisper only at the last instant. I realized then that I hadn’t really believed the gem was real. It further occurred to me that I’d been counting on it being a legend, so that our Aklaaktite employer would have to pay us the industry-standard three percent of our fee for attempting the job when we came back empty-handed. The revelation stunned me. That was how Hitch and I had been eking out a living these past five years, deluding ourselves that we were serious about our profession.

But we could discuss that later. If there was a later. Right now, I was determined to have the Orb of Oshasinto.

Glancing sidelong, I was surprised and pleased to see the same resolute glint in Hitchcock’s eyes. He said, “We’re going to need a couple of those robes.” His voice didn’t tremble this time.

Fortunately, Gummi-wummy priests were still arriving too. We waited for a pair coming up on our rear, and hit them with an incapacitation beam from our zappers when they were just about on top of us. Hitch and I had all the tools of the trade, even if we’d hardly ever used them.

We got into the robes, which fit, since luckily Gummis are roughly the same size as humans. Our new garb was cowled and draped our bodies all the way to the ground. We fiddled with our suits’ chameleon matrixes until we had something that looked pretty much like jiggly Gummi flesh, in case anybody saw through a flap of the robes.

At the start of the clearing we paused again. I felt my natural fatalism wanting to drag me under. I sensed Hitch’s quivery unease. We didn’t know this ritual. We had no knowledge of the intricate dances this priesthood was enacting around the pyramid.

I caught Hitchcock’s eyes deep in his cowl and murmured, “Just act like we know what we’re doing.”

“No one’s going to mess with us. Everybody is afraid of a holy roller.”

With that, we went. Heads bent, arms folded, we made for the center of the clearing, while from another direction the Orb of Oshasinto was still being carried reverently toward the makeshift pyramid. I wondered why the Gummis had abandoned their temple, then decided to think about it later—again, if we were going to get a later.

The commotion increased. The singing grew louder. As we neared the pyramid, I started to imitate the movements of the other robed shapes. Hitch followed suit. It was a whole lot of step-step-turn-jiggle-step, and I must say we made a fair go of it. Neither of us would have passed an audition, but with the rising religious hysteria, we were able to blend.

The bearers brought the Orb to the pyramid, amid lots more gyrations and prostrations. Hitch and I whirled and bowed as we slipped in among the other priests, trying not to call any attention to ourselves, even as we edged nearer the massive golden gem.

No one questioned our presence or asked us to say anything in Gummi—which was fortunate. All the priests encircled the altar-like stones now, as a quartet of elaborately costumed ministers lifted the Orb and started carrying it up the rickety pyramid’s steps. Its facets were dazzling, and I felt powerful emotions surging through me. The gem radiated with a deep inner light that seemed to pulse.

Finally, with much veneration, the Orb of Oshasinto was placed atop the pyramid. The four bearers retreated.

What followed was what I’d been hoping for—an orgy. The ritualistic ecstasy broke loose, and all the Gummi-wummies had at each other, including the priests, who shucked their robes and dived in with gusto. It quickly became a mass frenzy. If you’ve never seen a Gummi mate, you’re not missing anything. It involves a lot of wriggling, writhing, groping and squelching. Then again, they would probably say the same thing about humans.

Hitchcock and I were still on our feet, of course. As one we unholstered our zappers and aimed at the base of the unsteady pyramid. We hit it with full force, at just the right points, and the miniature tower groaned, swayed, and toppled. I caught the Orb as it rolled down with the falling stones. Hitch handled crowd control, letting go a wide incapacitation beam that took down the nearest Gummis. Our combined weapons couldn’t deal with all of these creatures, however.

I was clutching the enormous gem to my chest. It was both heavier and somehow not as dense as I’d figured, as though there was a buoyancy within it. But there was no time to contemplate this. Hitch and I did what adventurers are supposed to do in a situation like this—we ran like the dickens.

By design, we had created a great deal of confusion. Startled adherents were uncoupling from each other and rushing toward the collapsed pyramid, unsure what had happened. Me and Hitch were still in our robes, and I was hunched over the Orb as we hurried away. I think it bought us an extra twenty seconds or so. But in the death-defying, skin of your teeth, treasure-hunting game, that’s a lot of time.

We ran across the spongy backs of those Gummis who hadn’t yet come up for air. Hitch was picking his shots wisely, using the incapacitator setting. We had reached the far edge of the clearing, heading north again, toward the high rocky terrain. But we were being actively pursued now by an organizing horde of enraged, coitally interrupted Gummi-wummies. They raised a war cry, which sounded nothing at all like the caroling of earlier.

The mountains remained mercilessly in the distance, but this time we didn’t need to sneak around. We sprinted full-tilt boogie, crashing through the humid purple growth. Hitch switched his zapper to incinerator mode—not to torch our pursuers, but to see the jungle ablaze. I smelled the smoke, but didn’t look back. I kept the Orb in my arms. It continued to pulse, and my eyes watered fiercely from the beauty of the object. It was astonishingly lovely, and emotional energy continued to swell within me.

Of course, my eyes weren’t actually watering. I was crying like an infant, undone by the glory and beauty of the Orb of Oshasinto. Nonetheless, my feet didn’t fail me. I kept on pounding through the purple wilderness, Hitch at my heels, right where an adventuring partner ought to be.

“Damn!” he shouted, as I heard his zapper clicking on an empty charge. “Out of juice!”

I was about to tell him to grab mine, but he was already reaching into my robe. Sweat poured down my face, and my heart hammered like a Gorgolean baptism drum. I had no intention of giving up, though. Somehow we would reach those mountains, and call for retrieval—

Suddenly it occurred to me to try contacting Godot again. Behind came the spurts of my zapper and the bloodthirsty cries of the Gummis. Still gripping the huge gold gem, I stabbed at my wrist comm with my chin, and shouted into the pickup, “Godot! Hey, bugboat! We’ve got your prize—and we need to be retrieved. Now. At these coords! You hear me? Godot! Godot—”

The swampy skies of Meeloon shook. Something that looked bigger than any of the planet’s moons swooped toward us. I grinned up the shiny carapace of the Aklaaktite as the spacefaring being irised open its belly, limbs unfolding for a quick touchdown-and-jumpoff. Hitch continued firing steadily behind me for those last ten meters or so. By now, the jungle was a riot of heat and fire, but the Gummi-wummies were still coming on like a wave of madness.

We barely got to the bugboat. But, let me tell you, barely definitely counts on a job like this.

“You think it would’ve really left us there?” Hitch asked.

I lifted my Bongo Boy beer and shrugged. “Maybe. And Godot’s a ‘she,’ not an ‘it.’”

“Guess that’s right.”

We were back on Rusty’s Port, which is a crossroads for all sorts of star-crossing riffraff, having beers at the Deadfall. For the first time, I felt like we belonged at the bar, which was stocked with people famous in the adventuring trade.

Hitchcock and I had completed a job and gotten our full fee. Godot was no welsher, even if she had been less than truthful with us. We hadn’t grabbed the Orb of Oshasinto. Probably there was no such gem. But we had accomplished something that even Crackerjack Jones hadn’t done.

“I still can’t believe that thing was. . .was an egg.” Hitch was shaking his head.

“Believe it. I felt this kind of life force streaming from it when I was holding onto it. No wonder those Gummis chose it for their god.”

“That bugboat should’ve picked a better nest.”

Again I shrugged, feeling good—and not just from the beer. “Meeloon was empty when she put her egg there. Then the Gummi-wummies swarmed the planet, found her golden egg and built a temple for it.”

“Which Crackerjack Jones raided—”

“—and came up empty,” I said, grinning. A little Schadenfreude never hurt anybody. Besides, it wasn’t going to ding Crackerjack’s formidable reputation.

We hadn’t been a likely choice for the job. But Godot had been desperate. On the voyage from Meeloon back to Rusty’s Port, she had told us that she’d had an intuition about Hitch and me—that if the pressure was really on, we would come through. That was why she hadn’t responded to our calls for retrieval. She’d also mentioned that if we hadn’t found her egg, she wouldn’t have bothered to pick us up. But that’s a bugboat for you. Aklaaktites can be harsh. They are also, apparently, very devoted parents.

I lifted my Bongo Boy, not feeling a ghost of pessimism about anything. Hitch picked up his beer without a flicker of worry on his face. I was aware of the looks we’d been getting since walking into the Deadfall. These spacers knew what we had done. And they respected us for it.

“Here’s to my good friend Hitchcock, treasure-hunter.”

“Here’s to Matchstick, adventurer extraordinaire and my faithful buddy.”

We clinked glasses.

After basking awhile longer, something occurred to me. I frowned, and looked across the table at Hitch. “You know,” I said, “we might have to finish all our jobs from now on.”

Eric Del Carlo’s work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Futurismic, and many other places.  He recently had a story accepted at Asimov’s.  He is the coauthor, with Robert Asprin, of the Wartorn fantasy novels published by Ace Books.

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