Meteor Mags: Omnibus Edition

by Matthew Howard

  Cragg stood like a man, but everything about him slithered like a reptile: his tongue, his movements, the way his eyes burned into Kaufman like things without a soul. Cragg had removed his helmet, knowing his face would strike more fear into the hearts of these soft, hairy beasts. He hunched over the father like a vulture set to rend flesh from a carcass.

  Bony plates lined the dragon’s naked head, clusters of spikes and knobs of armor, a helmet bequeathed to him by some sick nightmare of nature. In a small corner of Kaufman’s mind, a dim thought appeared. He had seen this reptile before, perhaps in a book or a museum. But he could not recall where.

  “I have been watching you, Kaufman. We have been watching you. We know all your comings and goings. We know everywhere your cub goes, and when. Do you believe me when I say I could kill you any time I wanted?”

  Kaufman’s face screwed up involuntarily at the blast of the dragon’s breath. He held his shaking hand to his mouth and vomited into it. “Yes. Yes! But why?”

  Cragg’s green lips pulled away from his mouthful of knives in a mockery of a smile. “I want you to do something for me, merchant. And I want you to do it knowing failure will not mean a quick death for your cub, but a very slow and painful one. Have I overestimated your intelligence, or is this clear to you?”

  Kaufman nodded desperately.

  “Good. I know you are not an honest man, nor one of honor. You betray the Port Authority here on a regular basis. You have sold out your own cargo shipments to the smuggler many times.”

  “The smuggler?”

  “Damn you, Kaufman!” Cragg smashed a fist into the wall. It left a crater. If Kaufman could have crawled inside himself and died of fear, he would have. “I should eat you now and be done with it!” The dragon’s mouth opened wide. He placed the boy’s head into his jaws.

  Anton screamed. “Daddy!”

  “No, please! You—you mean Meteor Mags?”

  Cragg vivisected the man in his mind. “Yesss.” The dragon lowered the struggling child, wrapping a hand over the boy’s face to muffle his cries. “Meteor Mags.” The name dripped like venom from his mouth. “You will tell her something for me, at your next meeting. You will tell her about an opportunity that is too good for her to pass up. And you will tell her exactly what I tell you now. Or, you can watch your cub mutilated beyond recognition before I consume the both of you.”

  “Yes. Yes! Just let my boy go, please.”

  “Very well,” the dragon gloated. “Listen carefully, you hairy little thing.”

  When Cragg was certain the man had memorized all the details, he released Anton. Numb with shock, the boy fell into his father’s arms. Kaufman hugged him tightly.

  “I’ll be watching you.” The dragon took his helmet, opened the door, and returned to the shadows of the cold Martian night.

  Then Kaufman remembered where he had seen that face before. He tore one of Anton’s books from the shelf and hunted frantically, his hands still trembling, until suddenly the dragon’s face looked back at him. The book fell to the floor.

  “It can’t be,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”

  But it was. Kaufman held his child, and he wept.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  Patches grew bored of waiting backstage. She licked her paw several times, rubbed it on her face, and blinked twice. The club dancers busied themselves with clothes and makeup. Silently, Patches jumped down from her chair.

  With her spine lowered and her eyes moving back and forth, Patches made her way to the door. She looked over her shoulder to find no one paying attention. She pushed the door open and entered the dim hallway.

  If that hall had opened into the club near the booth where Mags and Kaufman conversed, things might have ended differently that night. Instead, Patches’ path took her to the opposite side of the stage and the bar. A new dancer had taken the stage. The club’s patrons sat immersed in their own conversations or transfixed by this new dancer.

  Patches made her way down the bar. She stopped to rub her face on several barstools, but no one noticed. She could smell Tarzi, though she could not hear him. She had not been so silent earlier when Mags told her to wait aboard the Queen Anne.

  Slim did not have what you would consider a parking lot next to Below the Belt. He had never liked the idea of drunken patrons stumbling out to armed ships and transports, not when they could turn their guns on the club. So, he set up a shuttle service, a small transport which carried patrons to the club from a landing zone a kilometer away.

  Patches had no desire to be stuck at the faraway landing zone, separated from Mags and Tarzi. She howled furiously at the ship’s door until Mags agreed to take her along. “Fine! You can come along, just as long as you wait backstage, okay?” It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Soon, Tarzi felt something strike his leg. He looked down to see the bushy little calico batting at his pants.

  “Meow?”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “You say something, mate?”

  “No, no. Sorry.” Tarzi forced a smile.

  Patches fixed her gaze on him and wiggled her hindquarters. He found himself with a lap full of calico. Patches purred and shoved her face into his.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be waiting—”

  She clambered onto the bar. “Meow!”

  Shorty said, “Aww, what a cute cat!”

  His larger companion looked over. “Har har har. I can’t hardly tell which one of them is the bigger pussy.”

  “Oh, fuck you,” said Tarzi.

  Hamish slammed his bottle on the bar top. “What’s that, mate? I’ll fuck you and your piece-of-shit cat, I swear on me mum.”

  Patches lowered her head and hissed. Her bared teeth did little to calm the miner. He stood up, unsteady from the twelve beers.

  “Hey, take it easy now,” Shorty said to him.

  Tarzi turned to stand up, too, but he found himself face-to-face with Hamish. A meaty fist gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him close.

  “You heard this skinny little bitch, Shorty! Told me to fuck off, he did!”

  With that, Hamish tossed Tarzi to the side. He fell across the low table next to him, spilling ashtrays and bottles everywhere. The people at the table jumped back as the whole mess fell to the floor.

  Patches leapt onto Hamish’s head. Her claws sunk into his flesh. Howling, she got busy with making him regret he was ever born.

  Tarzi shook his head. He sprawled on the floor with his legs splayed over the upturned table. “Well, that was the wrong thing to say.”

  “Hey, fuckwit,” said one of the patrons who had been seated there a second before. “Them’s our drinks you’re spilling about!”

  “Me?” He tried to stand up, realizing he was surrounded by unfriendly faces, but they pulled him to his feet.

  “Arrr! Get this bloody thing off me!” Hamish grabbed Patches with both hands and pulled. Her claws raked deep cuts into his face. He threw her.

  She landed on another table in a booth, feet-first but sprawling wildly. Scampering, she spilled more drinks and ashtrays. The men in the booth shouted, rising to their feet.

  As Mags leapt from the bar onto the miner’s back, someone punched Tarzi in the face. He fell into another booth.

  “Watch out, fucktard!”

  More hands gripped his shirt. Tarzi’s fist closed around a bottle of beer. He smashed it into the closest face as hard as he could. Alcohol and glass exploded.

  Hamish spun around and around, trying to dislodge Mags. She pressed her fingers into his eyes. He grabbed at her to throw her off, but she kicked him in the kidney with her boot heel. “Yarrr,” he roared.

  Mags threw herself forward. She flipped her body, back arched, still holding the miner in her grip. Her boots met the floor. Then Hamish’s feet rose off the ground. His body sailed over her, through the air, and slammed onto the floor.

  “Don’t!” Mags yelled, stomping on him. “Touch!” She stomped him again
. “My fucking cat!” Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Hamish spat blood all over the back of her boot and her bare leg.

  The man grabbing Tarzi slumped into the booth when the bottle hit him. Tarzi dragged himself to the edge of the table. But the man’s two friends were waiting for him. Patches ran up one of their legs, claws fully extended.

  “Ow, goddamnit!” Like a calico tornado of daggers, Patches ran up and down him, ripping and shrieking. Tarzi kicked the other one in the stomach.

  Mags grabbed a barstool, but the patrons at the fallen table had decided she was next. They swarmed on her, fists flying. She swung.

  The noise from the commotion reached the two bouncers at the club’s entrance. Slim entrusted the two of them with laser pistols, since they needed to remove all suspected weapons from patrons at the door. As Mags beat her assailants away with the barstool, she found herself face-to-face with one of the bouncers. She flung her head forward, bashing him in the nose. Blood spurted across her face. She yanked the pistol from his hand and shoved him away.

  “Tarzi! Get the fuck down!” Mags put three rounds into the man standing over Tarzi at the edge of the booth. Patches leapt away from the man she was assaulting. Mags put two rounds into him, too.

  The first bouncer grabbed at her, but she smacked the pistol into his head as hard as she could. He crumpled to the floor. Mags whirled towards the second bouncer. He had his pistol drawn, but he hesitated. He did not want to accidentally shoot any of the patrons or the dancers in these close, crowded quarters. Mags leveled the pistol at him. “Drop it, dillrod!”

  He dropped it.

  “Now listen up, you sons of bitches! Me, my nephew, and my cat are going to walk out of here, and not a single one of you bloody hoons is going to fuck with us. Or I will send you all to an early fucking grave! Do you understand me?”

  Mags surveyed the club. Only two minutes ago, it had been clean and orderly. Now the tables lie in disarray. Men cowered under the tables in their booths. Hamish sprawled motionless on the floor. Mags could not tell if he was alive or dead, and she did not care. Slim was nowhere in sight.

  Shorty’s head poked up from behind the bar. He raised his hands. “We understand,” he whimpered. He could not tell if the face Mags made was a smile or a snarl.

  “Good.”

  Tarzi walked up to her, cradling his hand. She tilted her head towards the door, and her nephew led the way. Patches bumped the side of her boots and ran after him. The solar system’s number one dancer backed out the door, pistol raised, finger on the trigger, scanning the crowd.

  Shorty would never forget that sight. His eyes followed Mags’ star-covered curves as she backed out of the room. Then she spun on her heel and walked out the door. Her tail flicked side to side across her thong underwear.

  It had a hypnotic effect on the scrawny space miner. He would dream of Mags many times after that, and he would often hope to meet her again.

  But he never did.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  “Are you okay?”

  Tarzi rubbed the side of his face. A bruise took shape. “Auntie, why is it that we can’t go anywhere together without getting beaten, punched, stabbed, and shot at?”

  “You said you were bored. Are you bored now?”

  A grin slowly crept across the young man’s face. “No, I guess not!” He laughed softly. “But how are we supposed to get back to the—”

  Just then, the shuttle pulled up. The door opened to reveal Slim’s smiling face, happy as ever. “Hey! You need a lift?”

  Mags’ eyes twinkled. She nudged Tarzi, who stepped aboard the transport. Patches followed right behind him, and Mags climbed in.

  “Sorry about the mess,” she said, taking a seat. Patches jumped up on her lap.

  “Wait. We just shot up your club, and you’re giving us a ride?”

  “Oh, sure!” Slim laughed. He drove the transport across the barren landscape of the asteroid, back to the Queen Anne. “Mags is a good customer! And a better dancer!” He looked over his shoulder at her. “As the ancient proverb says, ‘One must sometimes clean the window in order to see through it clearly’.”

  Mags snorted. “Would you stop with your freakin’ proverbs already?” She laughed and laughed.

  “If you didn’t clear out the bad blood now and then, how would I keep the peace at my humble establishment?”

  “You really should give your bouncers better training on not getting their weapons taken away.”

  “I think you just gave them some wonderful lessons. It isn’t easy, training the noobs, you know?”

  “Slim, you’re a real stand-up criminal. Have I ever told you that?”

  “Oh, Auntie Mags. You’ve been saying that for forty years!”

  “And I’ll be saying it for forty more, you old dog.”

  “If only,” said Slim, “we were all lucky enough to be as long-lived as you.”

  Mags turned her head to the window. She stared into space, its endless expanse full of glittering stars. With her right hand, she touched her ring, turning it around her finger. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it, Slim.” Her ring sparkled like steel: perfect, polished, and clean. “Not a goddamn thing at all.”

  PART TWO: THE CAT AND THE CAGE

  June 2029.

  Hate smoldered in the captive puma’s heart. She did not fully comprehend her cage, but she knew in her bones the meanings of freedom and imprisonment. Nor did she have names for her captors—not any names we would recognize—but she knew she hated them.

  Time passes differently for pumas. Perhaps weeks had passed since the dragons took her from her home. Perhaps months. She had no clock or calendar to mark the days, only their repetitive taunts. The beatings. Their cruel forms of entertainment that made her a helpless plaything. Their unholy stench.

  The dragon who stood before her cage laughed gutturally. “Hurr hurr hurr.” He threw a piece of grey, rotten meat just outside the edge of the cage. In its own language, the dragon gurgled, “Get it!”

  The puma’s hunger made her delirious, but not enough to forget this daily ritual. The dragons fed her just enough to keep her alive. If she refused to grab the disgusting scrap, she got the business end of the electric rods they carried. If she let hunger move her hand, they gave her the shocks anyway.

  With eyes as hard as the Rocky Mountains where she was born, the puma fixed her gaze on the fleshy tormentor beyond the bars. Though starvation and torture had rendered her eyes cloudy, they still glowed with fire. Two tiny stars sparked in a sky obscured by haze.

  “Whatsa matter ugly? Not hungry? Hurr hurr hurr.” Meeting her gaze, he lifted the electric rod and aimed it between the bars of the cage. This would amuse him for a few more minutes, he thought.

  He was wrong.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  “Mags! This is the motherlode!” Tarzi ran his hands over the crates. “Look at all this! Cigarettes by the truckload. Three crates of laser rifles. A palette full of ammo. I think this one is loaded with cash!”

  Meteor Mags scruffed his hair. “I told you this would be good! When have I ever lied to you?”

  “There was that time you expounded the virtues of laissez-faire capitalism for three hours.”

  “Okay, nephew. I mean other than that time.” She lashed the crates securely to the wheeled platforms the dragons used to load and unload their ships. “Let’s get this stuff out to the dock and get out of here!”

  According to Mags’ informant, she had explained, the dragons had a fairly tight schedule in this port, but they had grown so confident in their ownership of it that small windows of opportunity opened every few days. The guards had grown complacent enough to enjoy some distasteful amusements between shifts. This left a gap in their oversight of the port, and she intended to exploit it to the max.

  Tarzi waved his hand excitedly. “Don’t forget this one! Look—a crate full of beef jerky!”

  “We can’t forget that. Patches loves beef jerky.”

  “No ki
dding,” said Tarzi. “I’ve never seen a cat eat so much beef jerky in my life! Do you think it’s even good for her?”

  “Hey,” said Mags. “As long as she’s happy, I’m happy.” She secured the extra crate on top of the rest, tying it down with sturdy black straps. “Will you make sure the coast is clear?”

  He peeked out of the storage room, holding his laser pistol ready. The door opened on the wide expanse of the unloading area, an ugly metal cathedral where the dragons sorted the ill-gotten gains from their conquests.

  Mags had not been entirely pleased to learn some Port Authority ships could come and go at-will from this location. It confirmed her suspicion some humans had sold out to the reptiles. But Meteor Mags had never been a woman who passed up an opportunity to “liberate” cargo when it was to her advantage.

  Their stolen Port Authority uniforms would conceal them well enough to wheel their crates back to where a stolen ship awaited them on the far side of the dock. Then they would take it only as far as the nearest moon, transfer the crates to the Queen Anne, and get out in a hurry.

  “Coast is clear, Auntie.”

  “Alrighty, then. Let’s go.” She guided the wheeled transport through the doorway and onto the dock. Joking set aside for the moment, they moved quickly but quietly towards their stolen ship.

  Tarzi touched her shoulder. He gestured with his pistol towards a shadowy corner of the dock.

  The disgusting froth of the dragon’s laughter reached their ears, though they could not understand its reptilian language. “Whatsa matter ugly? Not hungry? Hurr hurr hurr.”

  Mags could see the dragon’s back, but shadows obscured the object of his deranged humor. This lizard must have found some helpless thing to amuse him between shift changes. She motioned for Tarzi to keep going.

  “Hurr hurr hurr.” Again the gurgling laughter defiled her ears. “Gonna make you hurt, ugly. Gonna make you burn.”

  She turned her head once more in the direction of the lone dragon and his unseen captive. Tarzi whispered, “Come on, Mags! We gotta get out of here! Let’s go!”