The Last Noodle

Tree had been on and off Anto for several months and had never got used to the slimy, worm-like noodles that seemed to be everyone's favourite food. He sat at an overly-long table in a darkened café, trying not to look at his meal. He couldn't afford anything better as all his spare cash had been eaten up paying the endless succession of bribes that everyone on Anto required for even the most basic service. He slurped down the last forkful of noodles and washed the taste away with a cup of okra tea. It was his last meal before heading for the spaceport, and he wasn't sorry.

A waiter approached and stood expectantly at his side. Tree put down his cutlery and sat back. Of course the waiter didn't take away the dishes. He stood expectantly, hand held out subtly at his side.

"I've had enough of this," Tree growled. He stood abruptly and his chair fell back, clattering noisily on the tiled floor.

The waiter stood unblinking.

Tree strode out of the café and into the rain.

A hundred metres along the street was a taxibus shelter. Tree was soaked by the time he reached it and he squeezed in alongside a dozen wrinkled Antovians. The nearest glanced at him and shuffled up reluctantly until he was marginally out of the downpour.

A taxibus pulled up and the first few passengers pushed through the middle and back doors onto the bench seats. They all passed money forward to the driver and the vehicle pulled away with a jerk.

Tree was cold, and the few minutes wait for the next taxibus left him shivering. At last his turn came to crowd into the back seat and slam the door against the cold. He fished his last few credits from an inside pocket and passed them forward to the driver, calling out the Antovian word for airport as he did so. There was no controlling which route the driver would take and who he would drop off first, but Tree had left plenty of time. He was thrown back into the seat as the taxibus set off.

Two people got out at each of the first two stops, several minutes apart. Tree had already lost track of where in the city he was in relation to the spaceport. He stared at the grubby ceiling, resigned to the long journey.

He was thrown forward as the vehicle screeched to a sudden stop. Ahead of them, a local police hovercar blocked the road at an angle. The rain had stopped. A policeman climbed from his vehicle and approached the taxicab driver. They conversed briefly in Antovian, too swift for Tree to follow. The driver handed over some cash - fine, licence payment or bribe, Tree didn't know and it didn't really matter. He drummed his fingers impatiently.

The policeman came alongside the taxibus and tapped on the window. The Antovian beside Tree wound the window down and leaned across Tree to pass over some coins. Tree stared straight ahead.

"Visitor," the policeman snapped in Antovian. "Extra travel tax." There were other words that Tree didn't catch, but the meaning was obvious.

Tree shook his head wearily, collar-length hair swinging damply against his neck. "No tax," he grumbled in Antovian. "Paid taxibus."

"Extra tax," the policeman disagreed.

"You know what?" Tree switched to English. His Antovian wasn't good enough for what he wanted to say. "Someone told me you have a saying here, for when you're too full to finish a meal."

The policeman shook his empty hand impatiently.

"Apparently," Tree continued, "you say 'the last noodle was too much.'." He looked up suddenly, stared at the policeman's wrinkled face. "Well this tax is the last noodle!"

He swung the door open suddenly, knocking the policeman back onto the ground, hard. The passenger behind gasped as Tree erupted from the cab and stared down at the fallen officer, unsure for a second what to do next.

A second officer leaped out of the police car, jabbering excitedly. As he ran around from the far side, Tree ran in front of the taxibus and along the opposite side of the police car. He yanked the door open and jumped in.

"Time to get my money's worth," he whooped. He gunned the engine and hit the launch button. The convertible roof folded back. Wrong button. He hit the switch beside it and the hovercar leaped into the air. In seconds he was rocketing along the street three or four storeys up.

Tree grinned maniacally as the wind blew through his hair. Then he saw a pair of police hover cars racing to intercept from a side road.

This could end up being a short flight, he thought, but it was sure going to be fun. He raced off towards the city centre, looking for anything that might help his flight. Surely he was not the only one the police would be chasing today.

Gareth is from England and mostly writes science fiction, with stories published by several different magazines both on line and in print. He has a degree in Environmental Science, a subject that, so far, has inspired none of his stories. Links to his published stories can be found at Gareth D Jones Science Fiction.

Find more by Gareth D. Jones in the Author Index.

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.