Author: Robert Gilchrist

“I don’t think this is the way we’re supposed to go,” said Peter.

“This is the Celestial Orienteering Championships, Pete,” said Johnson as he picked the last lock on the door. “They’re not gonna make it easy on us.”

Tiny plumes of dust followed them inside. Peter took one last look at the nearby pieces of shattered planetoid floating above them that made up this asteroid belt on the edge of the galaxy. He let the door close silently behind him.

“It’s just like I remember from when I was a kid,” said Johnson as he took in the abandoned commerce center. The purple and green carpeting along the hallways, the franchised cantina with its red and tan tiles, even the ostentatious air recycler fashioned into a replica of a water fountain. “Why did they ever change these places?” He wandered further inside to explore.

“Seriously, let’s get out of here. Even the recorder has stopped.” The red light of the android floating behind them, broadcasting their progress to the trillions watching the yearly holiday competition, was no longer winking. Johnson didn’t listen. “This place was vantablacked out on the maps. The checkpoint isn’t here.”

Johnson stopped. “Do you see what I see?” he sang. Peter hated when Johnson started singing – it was always at the worst times. Always.

Peter jogged to catch up, listening to his breath quicken in his exploration suit. Sitting in front of the theatre – to think people once watched holoprograms together, sitting next to each other in uncomfortable seats breathing virus-laden air – was an ornate, faux-wooden cabinet. The panels held a sheen despite the years this place had been abandoned.

“What is it?”

“It’s a Madam Gordion.” Johnson ran his gloved hand along the dozens of knobs adorning the box that came up to Peter’s shoulders. “Last I heard there were only a handful left in the universe.”

“Fascinating, but it’s not the checkpoint. So let’s get out of here so we can review the maps and figure out where we got turned around.” Peter tried to keep the frustration from his voice. Johnson may not have cared about the billion-credit prize, but that was real money to Peter. Money to live, not just survive.

“You don’t understand, Pete. These things were kept by people above the uber-rich to hold their super-secret secrets. Whatever’s in here’s worth more than what we’d get from the C.O.C.” He tore his eyes away from the cabinet and glanced back at the android. “Shut that thing off.”

“It’s already off.” With that, Johnson began fiddling with the knobs, muttering to himself about pin-tumblers and disc detainers, tungsten carbide and self-destructive mechanisms, accompanied by shifting lyrics of Christmas standards. Peter didn’t bother chiming in. Nothing he could say at this point would make a difference. Instead, he merely looked at his reflection in the blackened glass of the android, floating lifelessly behind them.

A series of clunks, like marbles dropping down a flight of stairs, echoed from inside the Madam Gordion. “Come, they told me, pa rum pum pum pum!” exclaimed Johnson. A final CLICK emanated from the top as the two doors of the cabinet opened ever so slightly.

“Whatever’s inside,” Peter said, not turning away from his reflection, “I want half.”

“Listen to you,” chuckled Johnson as he pulled it open to gaze upon their reward. “Wanting in despite doing nothing but bitc –”.

***

That was how the designer poison was released into existence. They didn’t see the sign affixed to the back: OPEN FOR APOCALYPSE.