by Kelly Brewer
And they had both promised her high-profile parents they would abstain. That was easier said than done. Youthful fantasies and energy sent their blood and mind racing! For the sake of their promise and the completion of the tour, she hoped Kyle was stronger than she was.
Time to fly.
Angel activated launch sequence from the control tower nearby. The ship pulsed to life. They strapped into adjoining seats and the craft shuddered. Anticipation sparkled her gaze in sharp sunlight that arced through the room. She had never traveled in an old-timey rocket ship before. A deep, harmonic vibration penetrated the walls of the ship. She could feel the power and excitement.
He reached over, fingering one lock of her hair back behind her left ear, revealing her neck and the glory of her barely covered breasts. Her elegant nose and jawline contrasted in the shadow and light playing through the cabin window.
With a deep rumble, the gyro rose mightily into Earth orbit. They turned to look at each other at the same time. Mercy could hold his complete attention without saying a word.
And she knew it.
Below, after the dust settled, a dense vapor surrounding a roiling clot of red dirt still swirled above the launch pad. Nearly invisible, its color and form blended with the dry red-orange landscape. If seen, it would have been mistaken for a dust devil walking across the arid, windy plains.
Rising up in the gyro’s noxious vapor trail, it rushed towards the ozone layer, formed itself into a cone, and transmitted a stratospheric buzz that, if heard, would sound like a lightning strike just before the boom.
Translated: “The Accurzzzed One hasz fled!
Under-mind Him!
Time-szync all to eraszure hot.
Pray the Hawk faileth not.”
CHAPTER 3
CHANGE THE WORLD
Change the World. That was the pre-tour PR, and Dock would sell the hell out of it. The band’s aged promoter did not care which band he promoted as long as they sold out tickets, merch, and every show.
Light years across the solar system, in his first-class star cruiser, he tortured his implanted, dark-energy comms. At once screaming, straining, and punching the air around him, he seemed a madman addressing a demon, barking orders and demanding submission. Many uninitiated suffered daily, by that device, corrections from him. Willingly suffered… because Dock knew how to make money.
Lots of money.
His construction/media/mining company, DockInHaus, was the only privately held company to ever earn in excess of a trillion credits in a calendar year. That’s after taxes… and with some political help.
DockInHaus Corporation had developed and thus controlled a majority of the communication apparatus from Mercury to the dwarf planet Pluto. With so much information flowing through his hands daily, he knew where all the richest dirt was, and he plowed many of those fields, literally and figuratively.
There was not a single modern-day entertainer or broadcaster that did not use his vast media network to access solar-system-wide markets. Kyle’s band was the latest to eagerly jump on and power the pop treadmill.
CHAPTER 4
THE GAME
Autopilot rocketed the retro-gyro out of Earth’s atmosphere into low gravity lunar orbit. Restraints were quickly undone and the other nine passengers came up, one by one, from their private quarters. The band—Moore, Mactron, Ox, and five road crew members—bounced giddily through the ship’s hallways. Tamer, the band’s grizzled road manager, requested everyone meet in the Center Room for a final walk-through before showtime in six hours.
Mark Moore, Kyle’s best friend and the band’s founder, floated casually to a cabinet door seamlessly built into an otherwise featureless wall and opened it. A haze still hung about him from last night’s festivities. He reached in and found the bottle of blue pills.
“Hey, man, leave that crap alone a minute,” Kyle pleaded. “Not before we play. I thought we already agreed on this. I ain’t taking the stage with you on that stuff ever again. You make too many mistakes that leave the rest of us hanging.”
Murmurs of agreement were heard from the rest of the band.
“Yeah, Moore-on, your timing sure sucks on dope,” growled Ox.
Ox was 450 pounds of smashville drummer. He continued.
“We should have left you behind. You can’t control yourself. I’ll break your playing hand if you start overdoing it. Peco knows all your parts, buttwipe.”
Ox referred to Peco, the guitar roadie, who had worked every rehearsal during the last year of tour prep. If Moore fell out, he could easily step in. He even looked like Moore. If Moore cratered, Peco knew every song. Hopefully, in the unlikely event it came to that, only the band would notice the difference.
Kyle had encouraged everyone to be honest. Ox didn’t have to mince words. The big man had been relieved at the invitation to openness. He had played his heart out in so many bands, experiencing so many near misses at success. At least this time, he could fail honestly, and not because he held anything back or because of some doped-up junkie.
Moore snapped the disappearing cabinet shut with an embarrassed smirk. “I was just gonna take a little taste. Some quality control before the swells start hitting it, you bunch of hypocrites. Better not let me see you nursing too many bottles backstage, fat boy.”
Ox could drink a 24-pack in one sitting, as long as he was sitting. Moore was sure there were opioids in that bag of “blood pressure” medicine he kept close by. But, so far, Ox had been the perfect player.
Mactron, the bass player, looked on with a glassy half-smile, floating free, endlessly running scales on his bass while watching the world go by. Forget the politics, he just wanted to play.
No one laughed. They all felt edgy this close to the first show of the tour, and on Moonbase no less. Most would have liked to partake to calm the nerves.
Except for Kyle. He told them that he preferred to hit in private, but that was a lie. He was drug-free. Military had instilled that sense in him. He never had and never would. When would his secret be exposed and who would believe him or care? That would work itself out in time, he hoped.
The stash of drugs aboard the old-school transport had been Dock’s idea, and Kyle had reluctantly gone along. Dock liked to trip up the weak ones that dared enter his playing field by plying them with chemicals. After all, it was only rock ’n’ roll and everybody wanted to party with the band, theoretically the hardest partiers of all. It was expected from rock stars. Everyone was to have a good time, like it or not.
They were all aware of several hidden compartments but were unaware of hidden cameras throughout the vessel. Dock had had them installed to discreetly record inebriated behavior for simple blackmailing purposes.
Tamer, the band’s experienced tour manager, was already bored with the banter. This was not his first rodeo. He used a remote to illuminate a screen in the wall next to him. In several places around the ship’s cabin, the same holograph popped up. They could all easily follow along without changing position in midair.
“OK, here is the set list again. You all have it memorized.” He brushed the slide over.
“Here is the guest list. More important than the set list. These people have paid for all-access meet and greet. I repeat, be polite! Not just because we have presidents, princes, and interplanetary statesmen coming aboard. You have all signed agreements to be filmed and photoed with different officials for possible use in their political commercials. It was not a coincidence this tour was booked a few months before the re-election cycle.
“Dock maintains these oily politicians want to be seen with the solar system’s first Deepening rock stars. Something about giving them credibility with younger voters, blah, blah, blah. Though, I don’t know why they would be caught dead fraternizing with you lot, but your cooperation is required… and you will be well compensated.”
This last came in the fo
rm of promissory notes that could be cashed in after Tamer got what he was contracted to procure: major ass-kissing by all band members, including Kyle.
Kyle didn’t really mind. He loved meeting new people.
Ox didn’t mind either.
He was used to the smell of shit.
CHAPTER 5
Moon ROCK
Moonbase Amphitheater was the largest structure on Earth’s only satellite. The industrial complex was one of the few human structures actually built on a cosmic body’s surface. Covering 800 square miles of lunar landscape, it contained the largest airport ever built and was still growing. From Earth it could be seen with the naked eye, a glittering silver eye patch on the man in the moon.
Thousands of driverless drones ferried workers, machinery, and dignitaries from large orbiting ships down to the surface. Automated air traffic controllers hurled the drones in and out like wood chips from under an axe. Each ship-chip was designated a landing port before disembarking and was guided in accurately and swiftly.
Zero mistakes meant zero lives lost.
One mistake could mean all lives lost.
The band’s ship was one of only a few to land directly on the surface. From Earth, Angel transferred control of the ship to Moonbase Tower. It glided smoothly down into the backstage load-in area without a hitch, or a sniff. The low lunar gravity brought everyone to a standing position.
“Ok, just hold still everyone,” Tamer commanded.
A small, darting aerial photo drone began documenting the first-ever “moon rockers.” It hovered creepily, repeating the phrase ‘say please, please, say please,’ blinking intrusively into each blank face. They had not really planned anything for this important moment.
Intuitively, Moore vamped. He whipped out his classic silverburst Les Paul and proceeded to play the solo from the new album’s second release, “Betty.” The photo drone whirled close, and then less so, around the animated guitarist like an electron around a nucleus. It was an unrehearsed, spontaneous performance. Kyle began singing the chorus when it came around. The others picked up on it, clapping in time, moving in with perfect harmony, and ending the impromptu jam as if they had practiced it for months.
Tamer beamed. He immediately uploaded footage from the drone to his neural editing software, internally editing that and the old-school rocket-powered lift-off and landing. His wet-ware posted the clip to the band’s dark-energy website. Playtime was in exactly five hours.
When the drone blinked off, Kyle called in a group hug and said, “That’s why this band is here and not someone else!”
They all goose-bumped as political sycophants and VIPs began to arrive for the first of six prepaid pre-parties.
CHAPTER 6
SHOWSTOPPER
Mercy managed to calm herself. She was dressing for her Official Reveal at the first pre-party with the help of jack-ie the butler.bot, a gift from Kyle. She told herself, “Breathe in …breathe out.”
The bot whirred and clicked around her, fussing over the tiniest details, straightening up behind her. This was not her first trip to Moonbase. But it was her first time on the moon as a VIP with a rock band. And her first event in space as Kyle’s fiancé.
And her first time to make love.
Well, she hadn’t yet… but soon. Deepening protocols must be honored, in the name of unity and safety. This was prime. Her parents risked much letting her travel with such a rowdy bunch and had insisted they follow protocol, keep their word, and wait. It would happen in its time, naturally and simply. After the work was done.
It would be exquisite, Kyle promised.
The Cosmic Mechanix band had been chosen to be role models. The powers that be had designed this first-ever USO-type tour to the deep colonies to be inspirational, purposeful, and meaningful to those young people on Earth watching and wondering if the Deepening was their calling.
Mercy and Kyle’s unexpected romance and sudden wedding plans were woven into the fabric of the event, to be a true climax in deep space. Human virility seemed to wane the further men traveled from Mother Earth. But a young person could have it all and progress humanity if they played by the rules.
Mercy and Kyle had agreed to the plan. Plus there was a huge bonus already on deposit if the two pulled it off.
As she finished her preparations, she ruminated on it all. She loved Kyle more each minute, thought him worthy of the praise and success he had fought so hard for. He was a good boy, a good man, and totally not what people imagined him to be.
Admiring herself in the octagonal-shaped mirrored closet, she spun to get a feel for the weight of the dress. It glittered in the full light of moonrise peeking in through the skylight above. Kyle had chosen it for her. This was his party after all.
Silver and black was the theme for the evening. The material looked like ropes made of tinsel, somehow looking streaky black in the warp and woof of the low-cut, sleeveless, ankle length gown. A slit from heel to thigh gave her long, tan legs room to maneuver in matching, strappy heels. Jack-ie hovered close and she finally shooed it away. Intrusive little thing. She would ask Kyle to shut it off.
As Kyle had recommended, she waited for the noise of the pre-party to crescendo before she entered the room. When she emerged, a hush fell and all eyes, on board and on every channel, turned to her. Hers were on Kyle. He watched her steady approach, sure of her, encouraging her with his body language.
She was grateful for his gaze. The weight of the world’s attention was easily managed as long as he looked at her that way. Ox leaned into him and whispered something.
She finally reached her fiancé after an eternity. Putting his strong hand on her delicate shoulder, he kissed her lightly. She was trembling, so he dropped his hand to the curve of her waist and pulled her gently to his side. He was warm and confident.
“You are grace and beauty,” he whispered so no one would hear.
“I love you,” she gushed, wanting to curl into him.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Kyle smiled as he turned them to face the gathering.
“This… is Mercy. Isn’t she a showstopper?”
CHAPTER 7
Showtime
Two hours before showtime, Tamer pandered to the small gathering of upper-crust toadies.
“Folks, thank you for being a part of this historic evening.”
Photo drones whirred and maneuvered above the elite group. Toothy, political smiles flashed in a final flurry.
Tamer herded. “But I must insist we end this for now so the boys can get ready. Thank you so much for being a part. All photos and video will be uploaded to our private website, the address of which is in your gift bags. Please follow the ushers to the VIP suite and enjoy the show!”
The gathering turned to leave, patting band members on the back, some taking one last hit and wishing well. As the last left, the band members’ strained smiles disappeared behind relieved visages. Time to focus and dominate.
Except for Mercy, band girlfriends and girlfriend.bots had arrived on a different vessel. The real women all crowded around Mercy, admiring her dress and asking questions about her plans after the wedding. The girlfriend.bots mimicked and cooed. The wedding loomed large in Mercy’s future.
The boys receded to the dressing room area of the ship. Mactron strapped on his stage axe and began more rapid-fire scales across the maple neck of his 1962 Fender Jazz bass with all original hardware. An antique, but still classic, he had bought it a few years ago from a museum on Earth for $200,000. A steal in the year 2490.
Moore stretched and guzzled water, plotting how he could get a hit without being seen. He watched Tamer feeding guests from each hidden cubbyhole, marking their location. But Ox was now watching him, humming deeply and twirling heavy drumsticks, already shiny with sweat. I dare you was written across his face.
Kyle warmed up vocally to a holographic video his voice c
oach had made for him. It followed him methodically through his costuming. Lulu, in charge of wardrobe and makeup, fretted, tucked, and brushed. Kyle did not like wearing makeup but had agreed to for the first show.
The clothing made the man. He felt different watching his transformation in the mirror. He left calm, normal Kyle behind, donning the mantle of a much more powerful being.
Bonbon, the bass guitar tech, sensed his changing mood and nudged Peco, the guitar roadie, who handed him his custom-made Flying Z, tuned and ready.
Kyle whipped into the strap, turned the volume knob, and squeezed a scream out of her. A few lightning-fast riffs and the mental transformation was complete.
The opening song ran through his mind. “Relax, breathe in, breathe out,” he told himself. He and Mercy had practiced breath control together.
He was ready. He would dominate.
Time to effin rock!
An electric rumble interrupted his thoughts as the fanfare announcing the band’s imminent arrival rolled through the complex. Another roar followed as fans who had filled the sold-out 380,000-seat arena erupted in eager anticipation.
The butterflies were more like small birds now. Tamer motioned to the band it was time to go and, as one unit, they filed into the narrow corridor leading to the ship’s air lock, eager for glory. A photo drone strobed them as it followed, broadcasting an overhead image to the massive screens on both sides of the stage. A hiss of pressurization, the lock opened, and the smell of slightly burned metal accompanied their final approach.
Their trusty crew formed a shield around them. Ahead, ushers bobbled jittery white light around their feet, illuminating the hallway that led to the antechamber beneath the stage. The pace was slow as well-wishers screamed, stared, cajoled, and reached for the demigods.
