“Well, there’s a great name. You’re the drummer?”
“Yes, I am. Our tekker owns me. He should be here shortly.”
“Your singer buddy is here already, seems like a nice guy.”
“How are the nights here?”
“Well I don’t know, how good are you boys?”
“I suppose we’ll find out,” said Jon with a wink, and his new friend gave an agreeable laugh that told the artiman they had connected.
He passed through a narrow backstage corridor lined with unpowered holo displays, broken mindbenders, and outdated gamescreens. It led to the new marquee with four very familiar faces on the front of it. An unmarked anti-grav took him by surprise, carrying him upward. When it came to rest, Jon was on the entertainment level, and the stage was just around the corner. A familiar grunt emanated from the stage area.
Corey Jagger-Seven lifted his right arm into the air and pirouetted once and a half, hoping the flying microphone would hit him right in the hand. It did. It struck his fingers awkwardly and fell with a thud to the stage floor, and Corey’s left foot lifted from the sensor plate.
“Ugh,” he grunted, shaking the pain out of his hand, and he stooped to pick up the mic. Corey turned to the Staler 2050 anti-gravity power pack and adjusted the gain down a bit. He checked Ari’s board to be sure the horizontal balance matched the new setting. Whatever goes up and down has to be balanced left and right, or someone could get hurt.
Corey took a minute to examine the board. He tried to remember little things that Ari had taught him about it. Ari loved showing off his skills during rehearsal breaks, and Corey wished he could learn, but didn’t have the attention span or the technical knowledge it took. Still, he remembered how to construct and send an analog wave and a little bit about tri-digital tone morphing, and he knew what many of the buttons could do in the hands of an expert. Corey was reminded of one night in Tranquility when Ari was demonstrating how to break bar glasses by sending a sample of the ancient singer Pavarotti through the fire-pipe frequency extractor.
Stepping over to a lone mic stand in the middle of the stage, he replaced the mic and returned to his original position. Jon decided to remain silent and watch this human work, this person that he felt compelled to know more about.
A solyear before, Jon had met Corey at Summers Bio-Robotics in Hawking. The human was playing a gig there, and with his brother had decided to tour the manufacturing plant. Jon was new and programmed as a hospitality receptionist at that time, and they had gotten to talking. Corey had always taken an interest in the idea of using an artiman for drumming, but his credit was too ridiculously low to even consider it. They exchanged swipes, however, and when Jon malfunctioned after his second working sol-month he was put up for auction. His first call was to Corey to let him know.
Corey and Pel had known about Ari for a while and had even met him briefly while hanging out backstage after a Zan Smith concert on Moon. Corey summoned the nerve to contact Ari, and after several conversations and a jam session, the three decided to form a band. On Corey’s advice, Ari purchased Jon, brought him into the group, and programmed him as a drummer, and a perfect one at that.
Corey stepped on the sensor plate to begin the pirouette again. As the music started, the mic came flying off the stand toward his open palm: a turn, a slap, a grunt. Music stopped. Mic returned.
Music, twist, slap, grunt, music stopped. He wiped his sweat. Mic returned. Music, twist, slap, grunt, 1-2-3-4...
It continued, and Jon turned his eyes to the rest of the room. Three hundred seats at tables, half-grav chairs, mindbenders in the back, hotrooms.
Music, twist, slap, thud, “crap!”
The color of the walls registered as metallic sky, seats standard acrofab design. He checked a tag…manufactured in Chevron, Mars.
Music, twist, slap, grunt.
Old style credit counters, standard fab walls. They were decorated with trivia dealing with the theme of mining. An old-style laser splitter hung awkwardly in one corner with a moon mask draped around its stock. Pictures of various copper and diamond mines dotted the walls, and there was a large, beautifully framed moviepic of the trinitium quarry on the far side of Moon, taken before the media ban.
Music, twist, slap, grunt, 1-2-3-4-
“Yesssss!” yelled Corey. Perfect landing.
“Now that, my friend, was impressive.” Jon clapped his hands.
“Hey, Jon!” Corey exclaimed, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“How long have you been here?” asked Jon.
“About 2 hours. Ready to practice?”
“As you would say, damndogs yeah!”
“Anti-gravs are smack, check this up...”
Corey ran back up to the stage with all the excitement of a young boy with his first jet pack. In one bound he was there, replacing the mic and standing to the side. He started the music, performed a double pirouette, reached out his hand…thunk. He fell to the floor.
“Corey!” Jon exclaimed, and he rushed to the stage. The mic had struck the playroc right in the head.
“Are you conscious?”
One eye opened, then the other, and a smile found Corey’s lips. “Jon, I…uh...don’t say damndogs anymore... Aghhhhhhhh!” he yelled.
“But I said it with such passion,” said Jon, extending a hand and lifting his bandmate effortlessly. “You have to be a little more patient, my tireless friend.”
A voice boomed through an open door. “You suuuck!” Ari was here. Pel was right behind him and obviously stressed.
“Corey, here…” Pel’s hand gripped the arm of the older brother with authority and yanked him to the side. Corey’s first thought was that he was being denied the privilege of smacking Ari in the chest.
“Moons, what the…what?” Pel’s expression said that Corey was about to learn something. Pel pulled him in front of the PBC and swiped his wrist over the scanner, glowing bright red.
“Page seventeen,” he said, and it appeared on the screen. Blood began pumping faster into Corey’s head. His jaw dropped as his eyes read the dark black letters over and over again.
CHINESE WARSHIPS OVER CONCORDIA
“What the…”
“It’s ok, the plate says nothing happened. I sent a message to mom and dad.”
Pel looked into his brother’s eyes and saw fear. He felt it too, though they knew from the news there was no incident, so their parents must be okay. But why would the Chinese show a threat to Concordia, which was an American city?
America and China had been powerful allies for over a hundred years; this didn’t make sense. There was a dispute between the two about Martian export tariffs, but nothing in the news about any tension. It was merely an ongoing debate that was now before the voting computers for resolution, and that always took time.
“You scared?” said Pel.
“No…well,” Corey paused.
“You dreamed about this.”
“Yeah, well something like it.”
“You were dad.”
“Yes. I was dad.”
Silence.
Corey looked at his brother and saw an inquisition coming, so he took the lead.
“Yes, I was dad, out working, and warships with implosion rays were doing a London on one of the mining villages. It was Concordia, but it wasn’t, it was so weird. The sled was down… Beel Jonson came out to rescue me, we-”
“You’re dreaming a lot, Corey. I think you need Dr. Phil.”
That brought a pause, then a smirk, then a laugh to the top of Corey’s lungs, and he bent over as it turned into a cough.
“Who,” Corey’s voice got louder, “in the name of Jag Mushbutt is Dr. Phil?”
“I heard that,” yelled Ari from across the room. “Dr. Phil is smack!”
Pel started laughing too, and for a brief moment, war and parents and the upcoming show took a back seat to brotherly love.
The rehearsal went very well.
8
NEW YEAR’S
EVE
The day everyone was looking forward to had finally arrived. It was intersystem solday 365 on Titan, commonly known as December 31, or New Year’s Eve. Before leaving Moon, Corey and Pel had decided that this day would be their Christmas, since they would still be in deepsleep on December 25. Corey was in another galaxy with this upcoming gig though and had forgotten completely.
They did manage to find time for a breakfast together, and Pel gave Corey one of his favorite rocplates, The Submission Tour by The Bagel Eaters, but that was really the extent of the celebration. Corey felt guilty that he didn’t get Pel anything, so he sent him a cheesy holocard that danced around Pel’s head for so long he was almost getting ticked off about it.
Tomorrow would be Monday, January 1, 2198, and tonight was opening night at the Rochaus. Corey had just showered and was stretched out on the bed, naked. Thoughts of the upcoming show raced through his mind, while his eyes were inattentively browsing the Apple.
Corey Jagger-Seven, while here on Titan, be sure and check out the latest footwear at the Goodluck Factory Outlet Store… We feature top-line Footfit, Plethora, Nike, and Moonchuck in every style and color, and absolutely tons of size twelves, just for you!
“Titan programming sucks, especially the commercials,” Corey said to no one as he changed the channel. It came to him that Ari would be proud that he said sucks...and he touched the call button. Ari answered.
“Ready commander?”
“Fully engaged, Airman. Stalers are hot, yes?”
“Check.”
“Flight patterns on the drone speakers set?”
“Done, ready to go.”
“We have a live downbeat sync or auto?”
“Jon’s gonna do it.”
“Acoustic correctors?” That needed more than check.
“I can’t calibrate the correctors til we get started, too many people in the room already. Don’t worry, I got it. And I’ve activated the don’t suck button on your microphone. I’m sure I’ll have to use the extreme setting.”
“Therefore, my performance tonight shall be Oscar-worthy,” Corey shot back with a smile.
“Oscars were acting awards, not music, Corey.”
“Well then I will act like I don’t suck, how’s that?”
Corey Jagger-Seven, what are you doing tonight? New Year’s Eve at the Cassini Castle is like nothing else on Titan! And there are still tickets—
“Hey, don’t you know who I am?” Corey yelled as he grabbed his underwear off the bed and threw it at the Apple. “I’ll see you soon, Ari, bye.”
Corey glanced at the blank screen and turned it off. He touched his wrist. Hour 22:00. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. A few steps to the bathroom, hairpimp on, check the teeth. Two hours til showtime! He swiped the Rochaus site to see if a crowd was building up yet, and found himself counting the people in line as the live feed hovered in front of his face.
He felt waves with Pel and knew his brother was stressed out about what to wear. He laughed out loud, rubbed his face, and checked the mirror. Corey opened a drawer and grabbed his vial of Rocky Mountain, an inner-cell vitamin supplement to calm the nerves. He dropped two on his tongue and felt a sense of relief immediately.
* * *
The “green room” at the Rochaus was anything but a green room. It was a storage area, a meeting room, a make-out spot, a preschool, a place to have an argument when nowhere else was available. It was also supposed to be a green room, the room where the “stars” can relax and prepare for the show, greet their fans and do some partying after the gig.
Tonight the green room was home to The Cosmotix, and no band in the solsys was more excited and pumped than they were for the show. One by one they arrived, first Ari, then Jon, then Corey and Pel together. They met with head-bashing, chest-punching, hand-slapping, and lots of nervous laughter.
Yes, it’s only Titan and no, they were not performing at the Hong Kong Coliseum. But that didn’t matter. A new chapter in the life of The Cosmotix was about to begin, and everyone in the band could feel it.
“Can someone adjust my staminator just a touch?” asked Jon. Normally he would do that himself, but he was resting his maintenance drive. Ari was the first on the scene, and he pulled up Jon’s shirt.
“Here, hold this.”
Ari swiped his wrist over Jon’s back for the reading and watched the numbers on a screen hovering next to his head. He touched a few buttons in the air until the adjustment was made.
“Jon, your back is dirty,” said Ari.
“Yes, I know,” from Jon. He turned his head.
“Well, why don’t you-”
“Because I cannot reach it, and I have no tool for the task.”
“You don’t use a washcloth? You can’t…what is this, anyway? Looks like jelly or something.”
“Lick it.”
“What?”
“Lick it.”
“I’m not licking that!” Ari cried. “Could be Martian Flu or something. What is this thing? It looks like it’s growing organs. It’s alive! It’s going to eat your brain!” Ari turned Jon around and grabbed him by the face. “WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”
“Let me see,” said Pel. He put his eye right up to Jon’s skin. Then he sniffed.
“Tude, that’s bird shit. A bird shit on you!” Pel doubled over, laughing.
“A lowly bird defecated on me, Jonny Rhythm?”
“You were outdoors without a shirt?” asked Ari.
“I was trying to catch a tan.”
“Hey, check this up,” said Corey. He was looking at a poster of the legendary Jimi Hendrix on the wall.
“There’s something you don’t see every day,” Pel said.
Corey smiled. “I don’t suppose he ever played here.”
He bent over and opened a shiny black case and removed the stinger. The stinger was similar in shape to an electric guitar, but the “fretboard” was a row of buttons that designated sounds and octaves, and the body had a series of pads laid out like a keyboard. It could generate scorching leads, hard rock guitar crunch like 20th-century metal bands, tinkling bells…it was incredibly versatile. Corey strapped it on and positioned his clammy hands.
“Just another gig,” he told himself out loud.
“Pel, lookin’ like a brick house!!” exclaimed Ari. Corey turned. Pel had changed into titebrites. Corey always thought Pel looked good in them. His shirt and pants were flashing green and gold, the Titan colors, and he was wearing his bass guitar particularly low against his groin, which gave him a boost of kak. He made a few sexy moves while warming up his fingers on the bass.
A maintenance tech shouted through the door, “Twenty-three fifty!!”
Corey gathered the four together in a huddle, spreading his arms over the shoulders of the others, and they did the same.
“Maker of life, see us in the custody of good and grant us the victory tonight. Guide our actions for the bestness of all mankind.” Pel added, “And please don’t let me puke, amen.” With that they left the green room and headed toward the backstage area.
“How’s my hair?” asked Corey
“It’s still there and ugly as ever,” from Pel.
“Yeah Corey, when we get done you got to tell us who that guy is so we can mank his crane,” said Ari.
“What guy?” from Corey.
“The guy that gave you that ugly-ass haircut.” Laughter and hand-slapping.
Corey jumped up and slapped the ceiling as the four entered the backstage area. Music was pumping loud and the rocjoc danced and floated in a booth next to the main bar while shouting on the mic for everyone to get ready. The band looked out at the crowd from behind the stage.
The place was buzzing with people dressed to impress for the biggest night out of the year. There were scores of the latest holofit trends, (a holofit is an image of clothing projected from a belt worn around the waist, while the body is mostly naked), bright colors with flashing lights, head and body orbiters, morph jewelry t
hat changed shape, and hair in every style and color.
Old style helium balloons graced the tables while a small-scale mining train cruised magnetic tracks along the walls of the club. People were coming down off the anti-grav dance floor to grab drinks being handed out by well-dressed servers in anticipation of the big moment. The rocjoc, an eight-foot-tall Afromartian, began leading the standing-room-only crowd in the countdown.
20, 19, 18…
Corey commanded, “Go in order like always.”
“You would like the starting kick on patch 118 still, yes?” asked Jon.
“Yes, and melt that witch, Tin Man,” Corey said.
“Oil can,” said Jon, with an awkward arm movement.
12, 11, 10…
Pel began the pogo and the others joined in, even Jon. It was a war cry and a stress reliever, and it was their sign of singularity. The Cosmotix were ready to go.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1... “Happy New Year!!” exploded from the crowd. Trilite beams danced all over the walls and holo-projected confetti dropped from the ceiling. A tritone siren pierced the air and people were hugging, kissing, slapping hands and punching chests.
A gigantic 2198 floated around the room and appeared on every Apple in the place, and the crowd began chanting 2-1-9-8, 2-1-9-8 with their fists in the air. The rocjoc was gone and a new voice entered the room.
“A good and pleasant evening, men, women, and benders; welcome to the Rochaus of Zubrin, Titan and Happy New Year to all! Please join us in welcoming, for their first performance here on Titan on this, the first night of the new solyear…from Concordia, Tranquility, Moon… The Cosmotix!!”
They strutted onto the stage as the crowd cheered. Jon led the way as always, followed by Ari, then Pel, and after a pause, Corey. This was how they always did it. They were a team, and Corey was their leader. “Presentation” was Corey’s mantra. Own the stage, own the night.
“HOW YOU DOIN’ ROCHAUS??” yelled Corey.
With a nod of Ari’s head, they began...Jon slammed the sticks against an inclined console with twenty-seven pads, while his feet danced across a lighted floor panel spread out in a 180-degree pattern around him. Boom, bap… boombap, boom, bap…boombap pounded through the air, and a couple of brightly dressed men got up from their seats and strutted to the anti-grav dance floor.
The Cosmotix 2198 Page 5