“Ain’t got no deal far as I can say. Somebody said there was a girl left for Earth some time back; not my business but I’d say he was closed for business, foreseeable future anyway.” The woman leaves the shadows of the doorway for the dull orange glow of the huge star and seats herself beside him. They gaze upon a phenomenal sky together; these two have shared a lot of sunsets.
“Reuben Shugga; are you warning me off?” Froot exhales, and passes over the reefer.
“It’ll go bad or never get started Sha’, there’s your choices.”
“You don’t know everything.” Shugga grunts dismissively.
“I do. It’s kind of my thing.” Sha’ takes a couple of deep drags and hands it back, an inch of cherry red Kush glowing precariously at the tip.
“I believe Miles has hidden depths.”
“What he has is an ocean of baggage, held back by a hundred foot brick wall; it’s all moody good looks and faraway stares with those guys, until you break them and they’re crying on your sofa three nights straight.” Sharazad tries in vain to stifle a giggle, but has lungs like industrial bellows and the Kush has taken effect more or less immediately.
“I see. Do you break a lot of good looking guys?”
“I had to in the Infantry! You can’t see an incoming mortar with your head up your ass and yeah, we were all good looking. When we kicked your doors in, you’d think the strippers had arrived!” Sha’ throws her arms around his expansive frame, burying her face in his chest and convulsing with muffled hilarity until she gives herself hiccups. Froot employs his usual defence of pretending such familiarity is just not happening, but eventually pats her back impatiently.
“Yeah, you should get off now; got me all smelling of girl sweat.” He looks her in the eye “We go back and I owe you; I care. Take care, that’s all I’m saying.”
In the event, the more Sharazad came to know Miles the more she went off him as partner material; his easygoing nature stemmed not from some innate cosmic wonderfulness as she had kind of assumed but from a lack of engagement, an absence of passion. Maybe there were no hidden depths or maybe it was all used up or walled up like Froot said but dammit she didn’t want him to be right all the time! It can’t be good for him and it was bloody annoying. Sharazad worries about all of them in one way or another, and Miles becomes something of a project.
“You know how you never drop a blind note in but Froot tells you? It’s low self esteem is what it is.”
“It’s not low self-esteem Sha’, it’s humility.”
“The difference being?”
“One is imposed from without, the other is a choice. Mum was French and Dad was English so don’t worry; I have both those races’ sense of superiority but I like working for Froot. We’re playing alongside probably the greatest showman of the century.” Sha’ rolls her eyes, but it warms her soul to hear a man speak well of her friend; she hears from more than enough who don’t. Outwardly she’s dismissive.
“Still only makes him about half as good as he thinks he is! Don’t you have any ambition?”
“Not an ounce. I just want to break even and get out alive.”
Sharazad and Froot grew up together and were both outcasts, friends by default. Froot had skin a micron thick even then, but not yet the size to back it up; she was taller than him for a few years, and still sees him as a cross little boy to publicly defend and privately rebuke. Sha’ held Froot to different standards than ordinary people; he’d not had the best start in life, and a particularly nasty incident when he was just five years old left him with an untreated knee injury and a left foot which stuck slightly further out than it should. While not a disability as such, it did mean when the fight or flight reflex kicked in, young Rueben had only one option. Everyone knew he never ran; Sha’ was one of the few who understood he couldn’t. It was a mystery to her how he’d passed the Infantry medical; she assumed absolute bloodymindedness.
Sha’s isolation stemmed from a mild cerebral palsy which meant she took a while to walk anywhere, and could never stand for long; the other girls left her behind. The Big Band were noted for the brevity of their sets in the early days: thirty five minutes was the absolute maximum and on a bad day it could be twenty but this was the reason, even if it wasn’t common knowledge. Sha’ wore discrete braces on her back and legs and wrapped whitened knuckles around a reinforced microphone stand, bolted to the stage each night. One of these devices was auctioned years later; the catalogue made a note of fingernail marks dug deep into the moulded rubber hand grips. An observant if worryingly specialised journalist once asked Sharazad why she always wore flats, while Silver and Starbel favoured heels; on being breathily informed she saved hers for the bedroom, he forgot his other questions and had to go for a lie down. She spoke with difficulty at times, but speech is just so much static, and a distraction from the other ninety three percent of communication when you get right down to it. Neither was she a conventional vocalist, but Sharazad de Feauvoir had perfect pitch and five octaves of pure sound with unbelievable projection at her command; this was worth any amount of cut glass enunciation.
Froot was the only living soul who ever heard her sing back in the day. They’d disappear as deep into the woods as she could manage, a boy pushing an old bicycle with a girl sat side-saddle, and when they were far away and safe she’d sing and he’d blow his harp into the dawn by firelight. To Shugga in those days, Sha’ surpassed the nightingale and outshone the canary; she revealed a world of absolute truth and beauty which life so far had neglected to mention, and he promised himself the three systems would one day know this girl for who she was.
The Froot Shugga Big Band
Earth Tour One, 2228 A.D.
San Antonio, Texas
When you consider the immediacy of public teleport networks across the Sol and Alpha systems, it’s a fair question as to why a production of any kind should need to tour. It is perfectly possible to arrive, play one or a series of enormous shows in a static location and take the streamer home, and for years this had been the case. The thing was these megashows didn’t make nearly as much money as the old tours used to. Economic studies focussed on the anomaly, and eventually concluded people like entertainers to make the effort. It’s a buzz to have a big show turn up in your town; those who wouldn’t consider themselves fans will nevertheless turn up for the craic and civic pride.
The Entertainments National Service Association was made up of armed forces personnel, volunteers and a kind of artistic conscription which more or less compelled popular performers to entertain the troops. The government wasn’t about to pay you for doing your duty to Britain and her Colonies, but you could write it off against tax. It didn’t do your mainstream profile any harm either, and the closer you played to the frontline the harder your rep. This particular gig, however, is a long way from no man’s land. San Antonio is the headquarters of the New Confederacy Combined Forces, and a biennial celebration commemorates the liberation of the Great White North by a coalition of British, U.S. and Confederacy units; the venue is the ten thousand capacity Pony Express Stadium, built on the site of a long gone mail centre.
Miles has left the building, taken a wrong turn and got lost looking for a lavatory. He spots a public telemail sign and figures there should be conveniences nearby, but on arrival remembers some shopping he’s been having trouble with. Telemail is like all the artifices of man; it’s helpful and it works, most of the time, except when it doesn’t.
It looks like the seller hasn't sent your package yet, Miles. He sways slightly, having overdone it on Mexican beer; it had been hot as all Hell on stage, but the cooler in the wings never ran dry. He wasn’t used to the drink these days and his bladder was killing him.
“Yes. There's an egg timer icon and the credit seems to have left my account; I’ve contacted the seller but they’ve not replied.”
Sorry, Miles, I didn't quite get that. Shorter sentences work best.
“Took money. Did not send. Egg timer.”
“Want item.”
No problem! Let me fetch what you bought or sold in the past ninety days. Right, choose the one you'd like to look at. OK. Getting details. What would you like to do?
“Not arrived.”
Hmm, sorry I don't understand what you mean.
“Egg timer.”
Hmm, sorry I don't understand what you mean.
“Fuck sake!”
I’m sorry Miles, I’m afraid I can’t allow that type of language.
“It's ironic the only phrases you are programmed to understand are those which offend you.”
Hmm, sorry I don't understand what you mean. This was getting him nowhere, and he really needed to pee now.
Froot loved the ENSA shows and knew his audience; the crowning glory of the set had been an obscene seventeenth century sea shanty. The whole stadium seemed familiar with all fourteen verses, and applause was still ringing as the Big Band huddle in their customary post show prayer of thanks. Froot is subsequently approached by an Infantryman who has been seconded to security duty.
“Excuse me Sir; I don’t know if you remember me.”
“Cadet Newton I believe; it’s been a long time.”
“Lance-Corporal now, Sir. I wanted to thank you personally for Auckland.”
“That so? There was talk of charges at the time.”
“I was young, Sir; I lost my wits in that trench and you threw me into no mans land by my collar and waistband. I was dragged torn and bleeding across burning earth, shrapnel and bodies.”
“Not for long, I seem to recall.”
“No Sir it was not for long. The desire to nail your carcass to a tree for the jackals overwhelmed every nerve and sinew; I broke free and hunted you across a mile and a half of Hell. I had to survive in order to kill you Sir, and I want you to know I consider that experience the making of me. Whenever I’m advancing, all I have to imagine is your arse about thirty yards ahead with a crosshair on it.” Shugga winces.
“Don’t be imagining my ass.”
“I wish I didn’t have to Sir, it is one of the scars I carry with me but you should know; your arse won us Canada.” The Infantryman salutes his old boss and resumes his patrol; Froot pulls contemplatively on a bottle of speed wine, figuring at least the strangest thing he’ll hear today is out of the way. His reverie is broken by Starbel Jagger running down the corridor towards him.
“They’ve arrested Miles!”
“You are fucking kidding me!” Froot is in conference with a Desk Sergeant.
“No Sir I am not, and I’ll thank you to modify your language.”
“Pissing on the State of Texas? The entire three hundred square miles?”
“Urinating, Sir, and yes; to urinate on the Alamo mission is to urinate by extension on the State of Texas.” When Froot is shown through to Miles’ cell he can see there’s been a measure of Necessary Force employed.
“They beat the crap out of me man, just for taking a leak! How was I to know it’s a national monument?”
“It’s a Catholic mission, shithead! I should kick you around some more just for that! You know those nuns are scrubbing your piss off their wall right now?! I will leave you to rot unless you follow me right now and apologise to those ladies.”
“Apologise in person? To nuns?” Miles was raised vaguely Anglican, so had only cultural references to go on; these alone were enough to chill him to the marrow.
“It’s a condition of bail, and probably the only way you are going to escape further kickings until we leave for Wisconsin.” The punishment was an inverted identity parade where Miles walked the line not as victim but perpetrator, delivering the same carefully worded apology to each Sister of the Republic of Texas. Most were stormy faced Old Testament harridans seething with righteous indignation, some though wore suppressed smirks, and one actually winked; on reflection, she was easily the scariest. Damages were awarded, and a sizeable donation also implied if the Big Band collectively and Miles personally were ever to be let inside the New Confederacy again.
When you think about it, there aren’t many original Big Band compositions. The way Froot saw it there were singers, musicians and songwriters out there and he wanted the best of everything for his sound; you wouldn’t ask a master baker to bone a quarter of beef and Froot didn’t trust most musicians to spell their names, let alone write lyrics. Everything from traditional folk tunes to something fresh off the block was fed through the machine; songwriters queued for their offerings to be accepted, but whatever the song many people knew no other version.
There were a handful of originals; Froot had been a married man before getting thrown out of the Infantry. His partner had not signed up for the life of a travelling showman and that was that for many years, until the profile of the Big Band grew. A legal settlement was reached whereby the ex Mrs. Shugga would receive Froot’s royalties from his next release in perpetuity, but her lawyers were not entertainment lawyers and the meagre mechanical royalties would ensure he was back in the courts before long. The Big Band earned their money from relentless touring, media appearances and merchandise; the records were more of a promotional item than a product in their own right, and if the new release was to generate enough moolah to keep the she-wolf from the door Froot would have to write her a song. It was called Couldn’t Love You Less and it almost got him sent down for defamation, until his ex was advised this would result in the record no longer being available for sale.
Bigger than Sex was a drunken jam recorded with Miles on guitar and Sol’ on drums. Solomon was telling Miles about the street gangs back home in the mountains, taunting each other in rhyme to a lazy 4/4 beat, crowbars and lead pipes banging on whatever was lying around the streets. He was demonstrating these rhythms on the drum kit and Froot was outside a bottle of amphetamine wine at the time, so more or less freeformed a three hundred word knob gag while playing a circular bass line on the quattro. It was only released once, alongside equally exclusive contributions from other entertainers, on a limited edition fund raising record for the Space Veterans Benevolent Association. You can hear copies anywhere, but the original discs are highly sought after; the unplayed examples held by the veterans in their archives (numbers 0001, 0002 and 0003 of five thousand) are regularly used as collateral on loans.
The House of the Red Sun
Port Alpha, Alpha Centauri Bd
2231 A.D.
There are, arguably, two good ways to die; one is surrounded by three generations of weeping relatives after a short illness and so full of opium you can already hear the choir invisible, the other is in some heroic act of bravery. There is a caveat to this second death; if you charge into a burning building, bring out a survivor and return to perish yourself all you have done is add seventeen minutes of melodrama to the book of mankind. Even then, there can be exceptions. When rescuing a child a different set of mathematics comes into play; subtract their age from yours to reveal the net total of years you alone have created out of thin air, your gift to the universe. Such things do not go unnoticed.
Death is a lot like sleep; we don’t know what happens or why and those who return report a less than conclusive experience. There are many what ifs, but today we must deal with what is.
Solomon is dead. At the wake Miles didn’t know what to say, most present had known Sol’ their whole lives and it felt wrong for him to be there. He sits at an old piano, overwhelmed by grief at the loss of a man so influential to him; without thinking he softly plays one of Solomon’s pieces, filtering it through a strangled echo of the loss within him. Shugga pauses in a hushed conversation with Solomon’s mother and turns, his face like thunder. As he approaches the piano, however, his pace has slowed and his expression has changed; he stands with tears in his eyes as the last notes fade and rests a hand on Miles’ shoulder, his voice unnaturally hoarse.
“You’re on keys now boy. We’ll get another guitarist.” Miles pushes his luck; this ‘boy�
� thing has been getting on his tits.
“You know, I’m only three years younger than you.” There is a pause, then a shrug.
“You’re on keys now, man.”
The next day Miles is sat reverently at Solomon’s antique tonewheel organ; he’s been there an hour so far and hasn’t played a note. Sha’ joins him on the bench.
“What‘s going to happen to the shop now Sol’s gone?” he asks.
“He’s had a new guy in who’s been helping out part time, and you already know him; Lenny Deadman.”
“No way! Deadman can fix anything!”
“Hope you’re right; Froot’s over there right now with a bee in his bonnet about some ragged ass guitar sound he got by making holes in a speaker.”
Froot is in the shop in a state of agitation, several darts are in his fists and Deadman is standing in front of a display of speakers with his arms spread wide in defiance.
“Like fuck are you launching even a single dart at even one of these speakers! I will prosecute while they’re still airborne!”
“You think I’m afraid of jail? I will strangle you with your own guitar leads if you don’t get out the way!”
“You need me and I can always go back to the mines; I had a good job there and nobody threw darts at anything unless it was a dartboard!”
“You’re just an engineer!”
“So were the Brunels!” Froot laughs out loud.
“You’re good, but you’re no Brunel!”
“Well tough shit! They didn’t want the job and you’re stuck with me!” Shugga sags and there is a stand off. “Do you have a recording of this sound?” The big man shrugs.
“Yeah sure, we got it on my interface just before the speaker died.”
“Hand it over; I’ll have a box ready tomorrow.”
Miles arrives as Froot is leaving, more or less mollified. A broad smile breaks out on Deadman’s face as he greets his old bandmate.
The Only War Page 10