Meteor Mags: Omnibus Edition

by Matthew Howard

  A chunk of the ceiling fell out and collapsed at her feet in a cloud of dust. Customers dove to the floor. Some crawled under their booths or backed against the wall. “Listen up, motherfuckers! You can follow me outside and die, or you can stay in here where it’s nice and cozy. Enjoy some drinks on the house! It’s all the same to me.”

  Mags kept the shotgun leveled, encouraging customers to step aside for Donny and Fuzzlow. The two of them dragged Rodrigo to the wait station door. Donny pushed his way through, pulling a knife and growling like an animal at McAllister and the line cooks. Having heard the shotgun blast, they offered no resistance. Fuzzlow dragged Rodrigo’s body out the back door of the restaurant.

  Mags followed them closely behind. “Keep drinking, or come and die!” The swinging door flapped shut noisily behind her several times. Then it went still.

  A moment later, the shotgun roared again.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  Jeremy threw open the back door and dashed down the concrete stairs. He came to a sudden stop. Donny brandished a blade, and Fuzzlow held the shotgun. They relaxed at the sight of the boy.

  Jeremy saw Meteor Mags dropping shut the lid on the restaurant’s garbage dumpster. A trail of glistening blood led from a spot just in front of the steps, through the dusty slime of the alley, and up the front of the dumpster. The winds of Ceres would soon bury it below a layer of regolith.

  “Heya, kiddo,” she said. “You got a clean towel on you?”

  Jeremy nodded quickly. He stepped up and handed her a towel.

  Mags wiped her hands on it. They left bright red marks on the cloth, which she then pushed under the lid of the dumpster. She clapped her hands together. “Nice save in there, little man. You got a name?”

  “Jeremy.”

  “Love your shirt, Jeremy. I think it’s one of our best designs.”

  “I saved up for it for months.”

  “Months?” Mags looked him up and down. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bra. She lit one up and handed it to him. Then she lit one for herself. She blew three smoke rings into the dirty asteroid air. “Tell me something, Jeremy. Do you like this job?”

  Jeremy coughed. He’d never had a cigarette before. “I fucking hate this job. Everyone here treats me like shit.”

  “Mhm.” Mags flicked ashes onto the ground. “Made you their little whipping boy, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Mags,” said Fuzzlow. “We should bounce. Like right now, before it gets hot.”

  She raised her hand. “We always make time for our fans, don’t we?”

  Donny rolled his eyes and shook his head. He knew they would have better luck arguing with a brick wall than trying to get Mags to move before she was ready.

  “Tell you what, Jeremy.” She pulled Rodrigo’s wallet from her skirt pocket. She rifled through it quickly, pulled out the thick stack of currency inside, and stuffed the rest into the dumpster. “Why don’t you get the bloody fuck out of this neighborhood forever?” She handed him the wad of cash. “And get yourself a better job while you’re at it.”

  He stared in disbelief at the money, then up to Mags, then back to the money. He took it and shoved it into his pants pocket.

  “Yeah, kid,” said Donny. “And stay the hell out of the mines. Take it from someone who’s been there. You don’t want to end up in those hellholes.”

  Fuzzlow added, “Don’t become a musician, either!”

  Mags snorted. “Yeah. Worst job ever!”

  “Mags,” Jeremy stuttered. “I—”

  “I know, dear.” She bent down, leaned over, and placed a single kiss on his cheek. Then she put her hand on it and looked into his eyes. “See you at the shows, Jeremy.”

  He smiled like he had never smiled before.

  Mags raised herself to her full height. “Fuzz? Donny? Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Jeremy watched as the three of them ran out of the alley and disappeared around the corner. Then he ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  A week later, he laid out his forearm on the padded armrest. “It’s just a shitty stick-and-poke. I know it’s terrible. Would you fill it in for me?”

  Tinta owned her own tattoo shop. She had decorated the walls with her original flash art and posters of her favorite bands. She looked at the half-dozen star tattoos outlined on the boy’s arm, and only one of them partially filled in. “It doesn’t really look that bad. Did you free-hand all these?”

  Jeremy nodded, embarrassed.

  “Why didn’t you fill them in?”

  “I, uh. I lost my ink. It’s a long story.”

  “We can fix them up no problem,” she said. With gloved hands, she took a freshly autoclaved needle and set up her tattoo gun.

  “Wow,” said Jeremy. “That looks like a nice rig.”

  “Nothing but the best. Why don’t you watch me fill in a couple, and I’ll explain what I’m doing, and then you can try filling in one yourself, okay?”

  His eyes lit up. “Really?”

  “We don’t get many Meteor Mags fans in here. Let alone ones that do their own ink.”

  “How did you know?”

  Tinta laughed. “Who else would be trying to cover their body in stars?” She worked the needle over his skin. First, she tightened up the outlines. Then she set about filling in the pentagrams. She talked him through the process, giving him tips here and there, and asking questions to make sure he understood. “By the way. Did you hear the new Psycho 78s single this morning?”

  “A new single?!”

  “It’s all over darkweb. Here. Hold this, and I’ll put it on for us.”

  Jeremy took the tattoo gun from her.

  Tinta touched the screen at her station and brought up a video channel. “Check this out. It’s called Whipping Boy.”

  The video began with Meteor Mags, Donny, Fuzzlow, and their drummer standing before a burning building. Mags wore a pair of .50 caliber pistols strapped in holsters at her hips. She brandished a black leather bullwhip. Other than her steel-toed boots and her star-covered socks, she wore little more than a ribbon in her long, white hair.

  As she snapped the whip, Donny blew into his baritone sax. Drenched in overdrive and doubled with a bass note two octaves lower, the horn pulsated a monstrous, relentless riff.

  The drums kicked in, and Fuzzlow ripped a searing lead with his distortion-soaked harmonica.

  Mags wailed at the top of her lungs.

  Whipping boy!

  What’s your name?

  Whipping boy!

  A life of pain!

  Maybe you should take the cash and run.

  Maybe you should get yourself a gun,

  Before they kill your soul. Alright!

  Fuzzlow raged into his harp before she began the second verse.

  “She’s something else, isn’t she?” Tinta asked over the music.

  “She sure is.” Jeremy would never forget Mags’ kiss, and her kind words. He gripped the tattoo gun in his hand. He knew it was not the kind of gun Meteor Mags sang about. But it was the right one for him.

  “You know, I could use an apprentice around here,” said Tinta. “Someone to help with the shop and learn the trade. I’ve got more space miners wanting tatts than I know what to do with right now! You think you’d be interested in working here?”

  “That sounds like the greatest job ever,” said Jeremy. And then he filled in the rest of the stars, all by himself.

  4

  Mountain Lions Forever

  To the mast nail our flag

  It is dark as the grave

  And the death which it bears

  As it sweeps o’er the waves

  It shall never be lowered

  This black flag we bear

  If the sea be denied us

  We sweep through the air

  Some fight, ‘tis for riches

  Some fight, ‘tis for fame

  The f
irst I despise

  And the last is a name

  I fight, ‘tis for vengeance

  I love to see flow

  At the stroke of my sabre

  The life of my foe

  —from Pirate’s Song;

  —Qtd. by Charles Ellms in The Pirates’ Book, 1837.

  PART ONE: DANCERS AND DEGENERATES

  April 2029: Below the Belt Strip Club.

  “Oh, fer cryin’ out loud. Why they gotta let this fat whore get on stage?”

  “Hamish, why you gotta hate on her every time she gets up? I kinda like her.”

  “Ugh. Makin’ me sick is what she’s doing.”

  “And she aint no whore. She’s just a dancer.”

  “Yeah, right, Shorty. She’s a total whore. McAllister said she gave him a wristy for fifteen quid!”

  “Ha! Mick would say he banged the Easter Bunny if he thought someone’d pay attention to his dumb ass.”

  “Har har har! Ain’t that the truth.”

  Tarzi listened to the coarse banter from the two miners beside him at the bar. He clutched his bottle of beer, taking a sip now and then without setting it down. Tarzi recalled what Mags had told him. “Don’t accept drinks from anyone but the bartender or Slim, don’t ever leave your drink unattended, and stick to the stuff that comes sealed in a bottle. And open the bottle yourself!” She also warned him about starting any arguments with the rowdy patrons of Below the Belt. He quietly endured the insults the miner two seats over piled on his auntie.

  “But I know for a fact she took on four guys in the back of a trawler.”

  “Yeah? Was you there?”

  “Nah, but I heard about it.”

  “So that makes it a fact, huh?”

  “Shorty, shut the fuck up before I bust you in the nose. I know what I know.”

  Onstage, Meteor Mags smiled and danced, oblivious to the chatter. The stage extended down the middle of the U-shaped bar. Peeling off her skirt, she strutted to the pole at the end.

  A portly man appeared at Tarzi’s side, smiling like he had not a care in the world. “You must be the young man Mags told me about.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Slim.”

  Still gripping his beer carefully in one hand, Tarzi accepted the handshake. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  Slim laughed “No need to be so formal, son. Everybody calls me Slim. It’s better than hearing them butcher the name Ching Shuang.”

  “Okay, Slim. Auntie says you two go way back.”

  “Yes, indeed. That little white girl is a good friend. She can dance here anytime she wants! If you need anything, you just let old Slim know, okay?”

  “Thank you.”

  The man gave him a couple firm pats on the back then went on his way, greeting the occasional customer here and there, smiling and making conversation.

  The miners beside Tarzi had abandoned Mags as a topic. They now vigorously debated the relative sizes of reproductive organs in the animal kingdom.

  “It is too possible,” said the smaller one. “I saw it on vid last night.”

  “Shorty,” said Hamish, “you need to lay off the pipe. There ain’t no way you can get a zebra to do that. He ain’t built for it!”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “Har har har. Shorty, you don’t know shite from shinola.”

  Tarzi studiously ignored them as Mags began her next routine. A hoop a meter wide descended from the darkness above the stage, hanging above her head. Mags gripped the bottom of the hoop with both hands, swung her feet up, and flipped through the middle of the hoop. Locking her legs around the chain at the top, she arched her back and spread her arms wide. The hoop spun her around as she hung upside down. The club DJ had put on her favorite Mensen album for this routine, and Mags was loving every minute.

  When the dance was over, she gathered up cash from the stage. She stopped here and there to snatch a few tips from enthusiastic customers, bending over to shake her bare chest at them as she took their money. She winked at Tarzi and strolled by.

  “Gawd, I think I put on twenty kilos just watchin’ her,” said Hamish. He sucked down his beer with a look of disgust.

  Shorty had no reply, but his eyes longingly followed Mags. She disappeared through the curtain at the far end of the stage.

  A moment later, the dancer slid into a private booth in a far corner of the club. Tarzi could see her face, but not who sat across from her.

  Slim set two bottles on the table. “Great show, Mags.” He popped the tops off. “Love the new hoop routine. I hope to see it again!”

  “Thanks, Slim, ya old dog. How ya been?”

  “Never better. As the ancient proverb says, ‘The declawed tiger cannot scratch your curtains.’”

  Mags laughed. “Get out of here with your fake-ass Chinese wisdom.” To the man seated across from her, she said, “This bar used to be a lot rougher, but it’s calmed down since Slim banned all weapons. Those ugly sons of bitches out front are doing a hell of a job enforcing it, too.”

  Her companion smiled. “It’s a fine club, Slim. Thank you for the drink.” He slid a pile of bills to the edge of the table.

  Slim took the cash. “You are most welcome. Enjoy your private conversation with the solar system’s number one dancer! Let me know if you would like a more intimate setting in the back of the house.”

  Mags lit a stolen cigarette and handed it to her companion. She lit one for herself. “He’s something else, you know. I met Slim in San Fran back in ’91, cruising the coast, looking for a western route to smuggle fags up into Canada. The business on the East Coast was full of some real shady types, you know, little terrorist wannabes. Fuck those guys. But Slim? He’s a real stand-up criminal. We figured out a way to do it even better.”

  “Is there anywhere you haven’t been?”

  “Hmmm… Nope!” Mags chuckled. “So what have you got for me?”

  “We’ve had scouts monitoring the reptilian activity in the Outer Planets. This is the location of what we believe is their major port. They seem to be stocking it up for something big.” He slid a folded piece of paper across the table.

  “Something big?” Mags unfolded the paper. “Like what?”

  “That, I can’t say. But the amount of weapons, food, supplies, and cash going into that place suggests a build-up of force.”

  “And no one on Earth is doing anything about it?”

  The man shook his head slowly. He folded his arms on the table and leaned in closer to her. “It’s possible the reptiles have contacts on Earth who are preventing any significant action.”

  Mags blinked. “Contacts? Like politicians?”

  “That would be my first guess, but it’s only a guess. I have people looking into it.”

  “Hmmm. If you find anything out, let me know. Your tip about the creep who ratted out my favorite radio station to the MFA? That was spot-on.”

  “So pleased I could be of service.”

  Mags smiled. “You ought to lighten up a little, Captain Straight Lace. You always sound like you’re at work.”

  “Ah, Mags. If only. Maybe when I retire from the Port Authority I can be as wild and carefree as you.”

  “Don’t retire yet! Your info is pure gold. So what’s this stuff? Schedules?”

  “Indeed. You see, without anyone interfering in their business, the reptiles’ security at this port has grown rather slack. We’ve noticed the shift changes are sloppy, and the staff has taken to carousing rather than attending their posts.”

  “Sounds like a good time for a surprise visit.”

  “I thought so, too. Of course, we would never tolerate such lack of discipline on Mars.”

  “Hahaha. No, you wouldn’t. I’d rather drag my vag through broken glass than try to break into your Martian warehouses.”

  “I take that as quite a compliment.”

  “You should!” She slid a small envelope across the table. It held a single key, stamped with the number of a locker. Per their usual agreement, Mags ha
d stocked that locker with cash, illegal intoxicants, and several boxes of recordings banned by the Musical Freedoms Act. “Your taste in pop music is absolutely atrocious,” she said, “but you’ll find everything on your wish list in there.”

  He smiled. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mags.”

  “Likewise.” Mags went to light another cigarette. But as she glanced over the man’s shoulder, her eyes went wide. “Oh, shit. You’d better get out of here, Kaufman. This could get ugly.”

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  Two Weeks Earlier: Mars.

  “Anton! I’m home. Oh, my god.”

  “Kaufman,” the dragon hissed.

  Kaufman recoiled in horror. His back pressed against the wall. “Anton!”

  “Daddy!” The shout turned to sobs in the dragon’s grip.

  “Disgusting little mammals,” the dragon hissed again. Its stinking breath assaulted Kaufman.

  His stomach turned. “Let him go!”

  The dragon slowly stood and stepped forward. At two and a half meters tall, it commanded the living room. A nameless animal fear sent Kaufman scrambling away. But the dragon’s tail lashed around his arm. It threw him to the floor.

  “I am Cragg,” announced the scaly lips. “And you are mine, if you want the boy to live.”

  “What—what do you want?”

  “I want to see how long your cub remains conscious as I peel the skin from his body. Would you like to watch that?”

  Kaufman’s brow furrowed in terror. He waved his hand. “No, no please.”

  “Would you like to see how long your cub can live when I begin pulling out his organs one by one?”

  “No! God, no! Don’t!”

  The boy whimpered. At the sound of Anton’s cries, Cragg wrapped the talons of his other hand around the boy’s face. “Mammals make such delicious noises.” His tongue flicked out and ran across the boy’s head.