by Kelly Brewer
Kyle turned from Mercy at the mention of “the show.” Mercy pulled him back, would not let him fully turn away.
“Ok. That’s a good idea,” Kyle said, pulling out his virtual pad.
He tapped a few thoughts in quickly and said, “Can we see the press box? I like to see where my critics will be enjoying themselves at my expense.”
“Your critics? Your expense?” Moore had entered the room late, haughty, and drunk.
“I thought it was our critics and our expense. You make it sound like you’re the one who thought this whole thing up,” the guitarist slurred.
Kyle countered patiently, “Offering first-class treatment to our most vocal critics was my idea. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar!”
Moore cut in sarcastically, “You’re so… folksy!”
Kyle ignored. “Maybe they’ll write home something nice, maybe not. At least we’ll be able to act incredulous and indignant if they don’t. Tamer can pull VIP status from anyone of them at any time. This is the tour of the ages, man! Next time there’s a Grand Trine planetary alignment like this is in 2854. Everybody wants to be on this train! First reporter that mouths off is first one kicked out. That’ll keep the rest in line… hopefully.”
“Dude, you’ve let all this go to your head. I agreed to let you front this band because the label thought it was a good idea. But remember,” he said, remembering, “this is my band. I started this band and I can end it.”
The words chilled the room. Here we go again. Mac turned back to playing scales, away from Kyle and Moore, bored with the endless brotherly infighting. Ox was listening without watching, drinking a Mars beer. He handed one to Mactron and they smirked at each other. Kyle fired back.
“Screw you. It was your idea to let me front. You said if this band goes south, you could blame me and walk away to your next project!”
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” Moore admitted, reaching for a Martian brew.
Ox grudgingly handed him one.
The two men laughed and everyone went back to pretending they were not staring at Mercy.
Moore couldn’t resist digging further. “I started this band. I started you. I own you!”
Ox cued it up for everybody in the room. “I’ll own both you boys if you don’t keep it civil in front of the lady.”
He nodded at her, and she, appreciatively, to him.
Continuing with weighted words, Ox assured them, “I got a stake in these here proceedings. You all keep your bitchin’ to yourselves and remember we are a team. Ain’t one of us as good without the other. Together this thing works. Apart, it’s just some random guys popping off.”
He turned to a wobbly Moore. “Maybe you could make it alone, bud, you’re that good. But maybe not. All I know is, together it’s magic… and none of you get to bust my bubble without me giving you a severe ass whooping first. Pardon, madam.”
Ox smiled at Mercy.
Mercy smiled at Kyle.
That kept it real. And tightened it up as the gyro sat down smoothly in Bay 6, behind the Martian stage.
“Sheeewwee! Too much testosterone flying around for me!” Mercy waved her hand as if she smelled something questionable.
“I’m going to get a drink and tour the all-new Terror Dome before the plebes arrive. Be sure and wipe the place down, gentlemen, when you’re done sweating the small stuff. We will have guests before you know it. I’ll be right around the corner, and right back.” She commanded respect until the door down to the shuttle closed behind her.
Kyle then challenged Moore aggressively, in a hushed tone, “Hey, shit-face, anytime you want to fire me or change your address, let me know. I’ll have the papers drawn up, and we can go be happy in separate bands. I will make it work anyway, anyhow. I got a million ways I’d be fine without you and your childish bullshit!”
Tamer watched, patiently waiting to get on with his brief.
Moore spat. “You’d like that, huh?” He searched for a mature foothold. “You can’t keep the party goin’ without me! I make this band fun!” He raised his hand and pointed a finger at Kyle. “I’m the one that got us here! I’m the one wining and dining the partygoers. You hide behind that… self-righteous culture warrior crap! Won’t be seen doing anything that might tarnish that sheriff’s badge you keep shined in your pocket. You just make sure you remember who started you in this business.”
(here it comes, thought everybody)
“You owe me!”
CHAPTER 18
MARSBASE
Wisping down and away from Dock’s phallic-like gyro through the belly of Marsbase on the shuttle was a familiar sensation. So was the smooth rush of Kentucky bourbon. Pappy Van Tinkle was the finest whiskey the Old American South had ever produced. Dock stocked it exclusively on his luxury liners, a sippin’ whiskey if ever there was one.
It was a welcome distraction from “The Argument.”
Same crap, different day. Moore played the same broken record when he was high. She had been with Kyle only a few weeks when she’d heard the “you owe me” speech the first time. Moore had realized too late, if you hitch your wagon to Kyle Supplantis, you ride shotgun. She would get jack-ie to record Moore’s stupidity next time. Kyle would have to reactivate that feature.
Sipping, she dreamed. She liked to go fast and opened a window, letting the wind blow her hair back. The monorail ride g-forces working on her body reminded her of flight training. She was a pilot in her father’s Jupiter armada.
Dad would not approve of her drinking. Sylvia, her mother, had slipped alcohol to her the first time when she got her period. “To ease the cramps,” she assured.
Kyle did not mind, as long as she maintained decorum and passed the daily blood tests. And did not her being almost married to Kyle now kind of put him in charge?
Yes.
He did not mind. She slurped and admired the innards of the mining operation.
Marsbase was a technological triumph. A thriving mine, it was the number-one exporter of red iron from off-world to Mother Earth. Her father’s shipping and ship-building operation orbiting Jupiter was a labyrinth of such sites. She and Aporue, her older sister and best friend, would ride the rail for fun around the different complexes her father Franco owned and visited.
She and Rue were both in training to take the helm of Manicore Mining Inc. … one day. There were still many business courses to complete. At twenty-five, Rue was already a vice-president. Mercy would be too, next year, after she turned twenty-one.
Assuming she still wanted to. Being with Kyle and the band was much more fun than studies. And the shoes!
Her mom had not needed studies and she was the smartest woman Mercy knew. Dad could not have been such a success without her mother’s support.
Mercy would support her man too.
CHAPTER 19
Eye contact
Sipping whiskey, sight-seeing out the shuttle window, she dreamed of a warm happiness. She was going to be so happy very soon! The monorail shuttle slowed around a tight curve in a corner of the arena, and she leaned towards the window in anticipation of greater gravity.
Their eyes met through the open window. In a frozen, helpless moment she was caught in the gaze of a killer.
He would kill again.
Her soul/gut always spoke the truth in her.
He was white, but his face was two-toned, the right side reddish. A large man and fully human. A soul. Very angry. And something else… something crazy. Everything was hilariously evil.
It jolted her.
Mercy turned, wide-eyed as the shuttle sped away. Right uniform… wrong place… at the wrong time. There were shuttle.bots zooming back and forth, clearing the odd tidbit of gear off the stadium floor, preparing for tonight’s War Party. All humans were on stage making final preparations. He was out of place, lifting a case out of the floor with no on
e else around. She knew by his expression it had been hidden.
Had he recognized her? Had he felt her shock and now her trembling? She was glad the rail was racing her away from him.
She voice-commanded the shuttle autopilot, “Take me back to Bay 6 right now!”
It was a shriek.
Calm down.
“What’s your gut say? Hmmm? First thing? Tell me!” she shouted at herself.
Her father had instilled it in her for years.
“Hone it, test it, trust it.”
She did. She had. She would.
She had to tell Kyle.
CHAPTER 20
Chica. Boom
Chic removed the case with his left hand and set it down. His right arm was aching and weak. The glare of overhead lights flashed in his eyes when the shuttle streaked by, momentarily blinding him. His desperation tweaked up. Someone had seen him from one of the windows. All eyes were supposed to be shut at 7:55 p.m. Someone had seen him at 7:56 retrieving the package.
Time was dwindling.
The case was concealed in a hidden compartment under the stadium floor. He was still on his hands and knees, fumbling with the latches when, equalizing pressure, landing gear hydraulics hissed loudly from the huge ship nearby.
He spooked, tensing maniacally, gasping, looking around.
Nothing. No one. Behind him, Bay 6 swallowed the fast-moving shuttle. It disappeared inside the nearly vertical railway tunnel.
Suddenly, he wished he was on it, heading home. He imagined himself in one of the stiff, upholstered seats. Clean, dressed, and calm, not hurting, talking to whoever had been sitting there. Telling them his stories. Maybe he could have had an epiphany. A clear thought that might release him from the nightmare of his life.
Reality sucked back the daydream.
“Damn, damn… damn… dammit…” he chattered, rubbing his bloodshot right eye, straining to focus. He should not have nibbled that Happy stuff before he Mars jumped, but it numbed the rage.
His face and tongue were tender and hot but felt a little better than his burning arm. The arm had been a lot closer to the tight blast and he had initially rinsed his face better in the shower. The burning was a damned distraction.
Hurry, before someone else spotz you and alertz a security.bot. You do not want to tangle with one of those arm-y thingz!
Digital eyes though, probing, recording, exploiting, were seemingly shut. Overhead, there were no “spies in skies.” His stepdad called them that when they fled the scenes of crimes after football practice. All security was temporarily blind. The stage was set.
Chic knew angels and devils were moving the chess pieces. He sensed a life-form nearby, that sickly, sweet fuel smell rose again, but he saw no one.
He hoped for an angel as he proceeded to do the devil’s work.
Time to run.
He checked his watch.
Just not enough time.
Ever.
Everything was as the voice had said it would be. No one was on the floor of the arena. The case was hidden in the floor under a panel exactly thirty paces due south from row 27. All was as promised, neatly packed inside. The kilo of Happy-stil (“worth a million credits on the street,” the voice had coaxed) was right next to the remainder of the cash payment and the high-energy explosive fitted with a timer.
It was a simple task.
“All you gotta do is”:
Remove the red Happy Pak.
Remove the cash.
Flip the switch on the explosive.
Close the lid.
Cross the arena floor as quickly as possible.
Drop the device under the ship that would land in Bay 6.
Get the hell out of there.
He would have five minutes to clear out. The escape pod was just beyond Bay 6, maybe thirty yards. Checking the pod earlier, he’d set it to “autopilot wait” mode. He would not even have to stop. Drop the case and just keep running. Jump in, close the hatch, press go, and he would be headed back to Earth a wealthy man.
He looked up at the huge, powerful gyro, inhaling what he supposed was kerosene fumes, then looked downfield at the escape pod, visualizing his path. A two-hundred-yard dash from his current position, he guessed. He could see people aboard the ship moving about. That would be those pretentious rock star weasels who couldn’t give a crap about anyone but themselves.
He did not care about them because they threw people away who could no longer help them.
They were now his meal ticket to the high life.
To HELL with those rich assholez!
Never mind Chic wanted to be one.
A hard sprint across a well-lit, open field lay between him and glory. This part felt familiar to the ex-high school all-star. Yet stepping onto the lighted floor seemed counterintuitive after slipping in shadows for so long. The voice on the prepaid phone assured him surveillance would be blind at 7:45 pm. He looked up again, scanning the upper levels of the stadium. Not a single security drone had passed over him since he’d entered the field. He saw no movement on the stage.
No problem then. He relaxed a little.
“Still got it, brother, like back in the day, baby.”
He remembered the glory. He would always have that.
His few glorious moments before he’d met… her.
He recited the headlines from his town’s only newspaper.
“Chica ‘Bang Bang’ Boom Boom. Most touchdowns in the history of Kentucky high schools! Graduating class of 2480, Hadjii High School, located deep in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains.”
Hills, that is… pregnant cheerleader… smokin’ guns.
Pushing himself upright with his left arm, he scooped up the case and a deep breath. It was a straight shot south of his position. He stood in the shadow of the monorail, heart rate rising. When he started, he knew he would be exposed, in the spotlight. He heard a rumbling, like thunder over his beloved Kentucky mountains.
Concentrate.
Chic removed and pocketed the red package of Happy-stil, currently the cheapest form of suicide on the market. The cash he stuffed inside his tucked-in Cosmic Mechanix T-shirt.
A cheap watch ticked down his final seconds.
“4.. 3.. 2.. 1..”
“To hell with it.” He activated the timer and closed the case.
“She lied to you…” he scolded himself for the thousandth time.
Stop blaming yourself.
She waz the best liar you ever met.
“Go, go, go…” he heard himself rasp.
Lowering his head and spinning on the balls of his feet, he ordered his legs to fire. Instantly, he felt power he had never known. Warm lightness came over him, like a strange vapor enveloped and strengthened him as he began to run. A heaviness seemed to dissipate.
His arm had gratefully stopped hurting.
He couldn’t feel his face, just the case in his left hand.
Was he high on gyro fumes? Chic had never thought to try it, he did not know.
Vision in his right eye somehow cleared.
Breathing came easy.
Faster he could go but he wanted to live in this moment forever.
Never! End! This! Moment!
What happened?
He marveled another second more, then…
Transcended… falling
remembering…
His seventh birthday party… cake… An evil clown… hidden by
balloons… bushes… A weak struggle… Pain!… no help…!
(another blur… forward…)
Older…
Great game… Bad girls… Bad drugs… Bad advice…
The power gun in his hand.
More bad drugs… her smiling, condescending, lying eyes…
Bad luck…
falling, leveling off…
Her face becoming Mom’s face, disappointed. He had not thought of her in years.
Was she still alive?
He would try to find her when he got back.
Show her that he did good.
Mama!
(slip)
One good friend. Jojo. His beloved dog.
Jojo!
He loved that little dog! The only dog he ever owned that he had not tortured to death.
He smiled down.
(he saw his feet were still moving…),
And then she smiled… her wicked smile… Allison…
He grimaced.
Anger drove his sturdy legs harder…
He thought he loved her once but just now realized he hadn’t…
just now.
Wow.
He never had loved her!
He never did.
Wha..?
He researched his heart-memory again… Yep… Nothing.
No feelings… How?
He was gonna marry her because she told him she was pregnant. Maybe even that was a lie!!
(Swirling…)
Oh damn, that changes everything!
(Swirling… heart beating faster)
Wait… that… changes… EVERYTHING…!!
(exhilarating!… whooshing… fast-forwarding… all he could see was his lower body… disconnected… legs pumping magnificently)
Crazy!
Laughing to himself somewhere.
He was free from her… from her spell!
Make this feeling last forever!
But… (damn, doubt)
If he had not loved her, why, then, had he let her talk him into killing her entire family?
She’d reasoned with him, “We’re in love, and I’m carrying your child, and if you love me, you will kill for me.”
“Why, Allison? WHY?” his mind screamed the revelation!
Had he shouted it? Or the thunder again?
More flooded in.
If he had not listened to Allison,