Hold Your Fire

by Lisa Mangum

  “Oh, you’re going places,” Tony assured me. Other than the bouncers, Tony was one of the few people around here who was intimidatingly larger than me. But despite the Danny Trejo mustache, he was secretly a softie. “It’s been fun playing with you.”

  Sitting askew on the dusty leather couch, Leslie remarked, “At least now we’ll be able to clean all of the space stuff out of the greenroom.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Over the years, I’d been strumming, then singing backup, and finally fronting my own songs here at the High-Dive, and I had quite a solid corner marked off. I didn’t even need a strip of tape with my name on it. People could tell Spaceman Mort’s area by the model shuttles, the hanging solar system, and pictures of the great American heroes from John Glenn to Elvis. And if that didn’t tip them off, there was the box of assorted costumes and props I’d collected, stashed under one of the tables and a few more backstage. Probably the craziest was the time I’d rigged an “astronaut chair” to hang from the ceiling grid—I’d had to sign a few “protection clauses” for that one too.

  Grinning, I took Leslie’s hint and went to put away my props and my space helmet.

  Cool to the point of sounding cold, Leslie asked, “How’s your new agent feel, Spaceman Mort?”

  It was true that until “Take Me for a Ride,” I hadn’t really let my sci-fi passion fly publicly, but then it was “Take Me for a Ride” that was really moving my career. I had not only been making more headway with fans, but I was playing happier and writing more lyrics than I ever had. Dale Bishop saw that too.

  “He thinks it’s part of my brand. He says he doesn’t mind the space cowboy motif, as long as I keep writing songs and show up to gigs on time. I mean, it’s not like I’m going around claiming I’ve been abducted by aliens.” I snapped my guitar case closed and did one last check of my area.

  Big Tony wondered aloud, “What would you do if they took you up on your request and actually came to get you?”

  “Count my lucky stars,” I said quickly, keen to hit the road.

  G.G. spoke next, one of her slender, pianist fingers tapping her temple. “You know, I’ve never understood. What is it with you and the little green men?”

  I put up both hands in a telling whoa-there gesture. “Oh, hey, don’t pigeonhole me. I don’t care if they’re green, blue, silver, or polka-dotted. Don’t have to be men either. Hands, claws, tentacles—as long as they have a spaceship, I’m in.”

  Big Tony laughed. “Oughta put that in your next song, Mort.”

  “Oh, I got a million floating around, ready to hit paper. But that’s another day. Gotta get some sleep before work tomorrow.”

  Guitar in hand, I started toward the outer door, but I noticed that all three of them seemed to half-heartedly block my path. G.G. fidgeted, and Tony had trouble meeting my eye.

  Trying to lighten the mood, I told them, “Hey, it’s not like I’m leaving tonight. We’ve got more shows on the schedule—hell, I’m still playing backup for other headliners. Only difference is now I’ve got someone to argue for better pay and more bookings.”

  They answered in murmurs and nods. I suppose I could have stuck around and analyzed it, but I didn’t see much good I could do to tend to hurt feelings, insecurity, or jealousy. Maybe they weren’t feeling any of that and were just being awkward. Or maybe I was miffed because none of them had said “Congratulations.”

  I exited into the alley. I didn’t need to check out at the bar, seeing as my single-pour was more than covered by my performance, so I enjoyed the night air stroll as a solo tour.

  As a performer, even when I was just playing basic blues backup for someone else, I usually had the luxury of arriving early and staying late. Not wanting to find scratches or vomit on my car, I always parked it at the far, far end of the lot. It wasn’t the prettiest vehicle, but it had a glorious moonroof, and it was in my day job’s budget, so I took good care of it and didn’t complain.

  I wasn’t even halfway there when a howl overhead nearly knocked me off my feet.

  It was a warbling, shrieking sound, like an underwater bumblebee on a megaphone, and some kind of force pushed against me, scattering dirt in all directions. A brief blue light slashed by. I closed my eyes and covered my face. I braced for I-didn’t-know-what.

  But as soon as it had arrived, it was gone, leaving no trace.

  I inspected my own shoes, saw that they were still on gravel. The only lights came from the High-Dive itself and the streetlamps. And, of course, the stars.

  “What in the hell?” I wondered, slowly turning to look around me. “Now, either that was a sort of stealth helicopter, or—”

  Then a truly blinding light interrupted me.

  I found myself strapped to a chair, blinking against a peculiar, pulsing sun, while strange sounds piped in from all sides. Clicks and swells, like some sort of synthesized violins. And movement—the shadow of a hand or an arm. I barely dared to breathe.

  My skin tingled, my arms completely covered in goosebumps. The hair on the back of my neck wanted to poke straight out, but I was pressing into the seat. Instinct told me to get away from whatever was in front of me, but this little voice in the back of my head urged me to lean forward and say something.

  My throat seemed to take charge before I told it to, and I heard my trained stage voice cut through the various noises.

  “Hello!”

  Then, “Who’s there?”

  And finally, “Where am I?”

  A disjointed tone, like an out-of-tune electric guitar on high gain, blasted then gradually faded. A shining outline of a head and shoulders cut off part of the main light. Sparkling reflections glimmered where the eyes ought to be.

  An otherworldly voice informed me, “You are Spaceman Mort.”

  I only got as far as opening my mouth when another voice, this one higher pitched and less metallic, came from my left. “You are coming with us.”

  “I—”

  And then a third figure appeared from the right. I could see a silvery suit and long fingers. This one said nothing as it approached.

  I started to recoil, but stopped myself as something caught my eye.

  Between the flashing lights and bizarre sound effects, I could see the seams of polyester and the edge of knobby rubber gloves.

  “You will sing for us!” announced the first voice again, with a telltale echo effect.

  I took my time. Hung my head, counted to my cue without tapping my foot. “Okay. I’ll tell you what you want to know. But the truth is, I can’t take you to my leader, because”—I squeezed my eyes shut and grimaced—“I’m the President.”

  They tried to keep quiet, but I could have sworn I heard one stifled snort of laughter.

  “And, tell you truly,” I went on, “if you’re looking to make a deal, you’ll be disappointed. Everything on Earth has already been claimed by some alien race or other. Elvis weaponized the big isle of Hawaii a long time ago, the Coneheads claimed the pyramids, the Cardassians assumed human form—I can’t even keep up with it all.”

  A guffaw sputtered from farther away, somewhere behind the light fixtures, which were flashing in a pattern similar to the one we used on stage.

  The alien directly in front of me reached up a hand to its own throat and turned off the voice synthesizer. “All right, that’s enough, Mort,” she said. “Guys, hit the lights.”

  The bright spots and strobes shut off with a telltale, breathy thud, and the house lights came up in their place.

  The foremost alien took off her head, and—lo and behold!—Jerrilee was underneath. Behind her over the bar hung a large banner, reading “Congratulations!”

  “Nicely done, Jerrilee,” I told her. “Who was on the high voice?”

  I looked to my left, and big Tony, still wearing my own Spaceman Mort helmet, took in another breath of helium before he said, “Surprise!”

  “Finally,” said Leslie, shaking his head from the light booth, but I knew his annoyance was only for show.


  G.G. had been the third alien, and, looking around the bar, it seemed as if every server and bouncer had been in on the gag.

  Jerrilee approached to unstrap me from the chair, the same one that I’d hung from the ceiling just a few weeks before. “So, when did you figure it out?” she asked me.

  “Rubber masks and Star Trek suits can only get you so far.” I indicated G.G., who was struggling to take off the tightest of the alien faces. “But you got me good.”

  I could see a couple of them chuckling, giving me a “Yeah, sure” look.

  “No, truly,” I insisted. “For a minute there, I thought I was being abducted by the real thing.”

  “You just wanted to believe,” replied G.G., her hair more than a little mussed and matted following its confinement.

  I had to laugh. “Yes, sir. Even when I was wetting my pants and sweating bullets, it was one of the most exciting things that’s ever happened to me.”

  “It was all Jerrilee’s idea,” said Tony, which didn’t surprise me one bit.

  “You didn’t actually mess yourself, did you?” asked Leslie, also unsurprising.

  Jerrilee practically spat at him when she said, “Jeez, Leslie, that’s what you pick up on?”

  While I made my way off the stage and toward the cold beer waiting for me at the bar, I could hear Leslie continue behind me.

  “Look, I was against the kidnapping from the start. What if he’d hurt someone?”

  “No one got their fingers broken!”

  “Yeah, and I never actually wet my pants,” I assured him. “Just an expression, Les.”

  Leslie’s worries assuaged, I turned to the group as a whole. “But, truly—thank you. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate getting signed.”

  I don’t know who started the applause, but soon all the complaints and concerns had washed away with some genuine well-wishing among friends.

  It felt more like a birthday than a goodbye party. Still, as the bar staff and my fellow musicians headed out one by one into the night, I had that feeling in my gut that nothing would be the same. Maybe my days here would come to an end faster than I’d predicted. I truly did not know where my new agent would take me, and it could be a one-way ticket.

  Jerrilee and I left arm-in-arm, still buzzing with excitement. When we reached her red Chevy, she said, “You know, you’re gonna make it really big.”

  “Yeah, but I’ll still be the same old Mort to you.”

  “I don’t know.” She opened the driver’s side door and stepped inside. “I was pretty starstruck when I saw you up on stage tonight.”

  “Starstruck,” I mused, gently closing the door behind her while she got situated at the wheel. “Wonder what I could do with that as a title.”

  She put one elbow out the open window. “Hey, in all seriousness. Wherever you go, whatever you do, know that I’m gonna be here to support you. First and number-one fan, Mort. I mean it.”

  Not one to shy away from my emotions, I felt my eyes mist up. “Jerrilee, I could search the universe and never find a friend like you.”

  “Mmhmm.” She turned the key, and her Chevy sparked to life. “I like it. Write that song first.”

  I waved Jerrilee off.

  I was the last to leave, guitar in hand on a warm summer night, perfect for stargazing. I knew I had to get back to the real world and my day job after a short sleep, but the thought of just staring up into space was mighty tempting.

  I was crunching across the gravel lot and had taken out my keys, when a funny little thought tickled the back of my brain. I’d never asked the crew how they’d made the crazy helicopter effect right before they’d fake-abducted me. Maybe they’d had a drone with an industrial fan and some kind of electronic sound-mixer? Setting up the High-Dive’s lighting grid had been pretty cool, but that low flyer was something else.

  Resolving that I’d ask Jerrilee about it tomorrow, I unlocked my car, and went to lift the handle—

  And everything went white.

  My head pounded, my ears plugged and popped. I felt a certain kind of dizziness and nausea. I was about to holler that no joke is funny the second time, when my vision started coming into focus.

  There was indeed a lot of white, but the lights were not blinding or incessantly blinking. The ceiling was a low dome, and the floor around me was a little golden ring that buzzed with a strange kind of electricity. But most importantly, there was a spaceman standing just outside of the ring, facing me.

  The head was dark, with round eyes above a pointy beak, all of which appeared smooth and sleek. Totally unlike a cheap rubber mask, and with no visible seams.

  The spaceman pointed a device at me, some kind of tablet I’d never seen before, whose screen and display seemed to hover about an inch above the metal, as if projected. And it was being operated by a hand with three fingers and a thumb.

  “Excellent,” said an electronic voice, whose mouth did not match the movements. “All vitals accounted for. Transportee, Mortimer Johnston, and instrument, acoustic guitar—undamaged.”

  I looked down at the guitar case, still gripped in my white-knuckled hand. This time, I couldn’t even make a sound, let alone ask a question.

  “How are you feeling?” the spaceman asked, putting on something that almost would pass for a smile. “Oh, don’t worry. The first transport is always a bit disorienting. You’ll have plenty of time to adjust. I’m looking forward to hearing you in person—I’ve been told the radio doesn’t do you justice.”

  The alien gave me a thumbs-up, then turned to tell someone else, “We’re ready to launch.” He went to a panel on the wall, activated it with a gesture, then started to manipulate a bunch of symbols I didn’t recognize and could hardly describe.

  Truth be told, I couldn’t even tell if I was moving or not, but I was damned sure that they had me on a ship. I didn’t know whether to scream in terror or call out a hallelujah. For some reason, I wondered how I would tell them that I already had an agent.

  Then, something I’d thought was a wall hissed open, and in walked a short man in a sport coat with a sharp nose. He was about the same height and shape as the alien at the wall console.

  “Ah, Mortimer!” said Dale Bishop. “Can I say again how glad I am that you signed on? We were worried someone would snatch you up before we did. Weren’t we?”

  The alien at the wall console agreed. “We made that mistake with Elvis. Waited until he got too big, and by then it was a mountain of paperwork. Luckily, you gave us express invitation.”

  Dale Bishop, my agent, reached a hand up to his face and smoothly peeled off the skin, revealing a beaked face with round eyes. When he spoke, the movements matched perfectly, and the well-practiced voice with the New York accent sounded the same as ever. “Well, Mortimer, are you ready to play ‘for intergalactic queens and kings’? We’ve got you bookings you won’t believe!”

  The room started swimming before I noticed I was swaying. My fingers went cold, and the guitar slipped my grip right before I fell backward. I heard Dale saying something, but I couldn’t make out his words. My head felt fuzzy, my ears rang, and—my friends—I saw stars.

  About the Author

  Mike Jack Stoumbos is an emerging fiction writer, disguised as a believably normal high school teacher, living in Seattle with his wife and their parrot. Like Spaceman Mort, Mike Jack writes lyrics and performs his own songs; many of his creative projects can be found at MikeJackStoumbos.com and @MJStoumbos on Twitter. His previous ventures into the funny side of sci-fi and fantasy have appeared in the anthologies Galactic Stew and Cursed Collectibles. He is particularly excited to be published alongside Kevin J. Anderson, who has been a huge source of inspiration throughout Mike Jack’s literary journey.

  Hyde Park

  Shannon Fox

  Cassian drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of his car as he waited for the gate that blocked his long, private driveway to fully slide back. When the way was clear, he pressed his foot against the a
ccelerator, and the Ferrari F430 shot forward with a growl.

  Dusk was falling, and as he crested the top of the driveway, the sun had already slipped below the horizon, its light painting the ocean below in a wash of red and pink hues.

  After parking his car in the garage, Cassian hurried up the short flight of steps to the house’s main level. His footsteps echoed through the front hall as he strode toward the kitchen. When he had first toured this house with his mother, she had described it as “cold.” Even the jaw-dropping ocean views hadn’t been enough to soften her distaste for all the concrete and glass. But to Cassian, it was perfect. The sterile surfaces and hard edges lent a particularly masculine energy to a house that had been specifically crafted to take advantage of the incredible panoramic views.

  In the kitchen, Cassian poured himself a finger of whiskey and took a sip before walking down the hall to his bedroom. His guest would be arriving soon.

  The sun had fully set by the time Cassian entered the master suite. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, drinking whiskey and watching the last of the light drain away as night descended.

  “Cassian,” a voice rasped.

  He didn’t turn. He knew who was in the room with him and didn’t care to look upon his face.

  “The new film premieres tomorrow night,” Cassian said, swirling his glass. “At the El Capitan. They’re already calling it the blockbuster of the summer. I think the studio will green-light the next film by week’s end.”

  “You should be proud,” the visitor said.

  “I am.” And he was. The miniseries he’d pitched and produced just six years ago, Hyde Park, had initially attracted a small but mighty following that soon exploded as more and more people began tuning in. Now it had become a cultural phenomenon spawning two feature-length films, the second of which debuted tomorrow night.

  “You don’t sound like it.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you want in exchange for your help on the next film. I assume that’s why you’re here.”