Meteor Mags: Omnibus Edition

by Matthew Howard

  The Crystal Palace. The painting portrayed a fantastic castle made of transparent quartz. An array of sparkling lights illuminated the largest crystals from within.

  Kaufman felt his entire life had become a crystal palace. So many walls, but nowhere to hide. The MFA task force would be here within forty-eight hours, and he knew both the force and his own management would have him under close supervision. Then there was the dragon who had threatened him and his son.

  But he had not ordered the artwork out of sentimental attachment to the metaphor. As he looked into the opening he had sliced, he beheld the true object of his desire. Sliding his fingers into the opening, he delicately drew out a full-sized poster. An expression his staff had never seen lit up his face. He spread the poster on his desk.

  Meteor Mags screamed into a microphone. She gripped it in one hand, snapping a whip with the other. At her feet hissed Patches. They appeared in high contrast black on white in a stylized design suitable for silk-screening. Below them, in red block letters, the poster read, “Music is Treason. Psycho 78s on Ceres. August, 2027.”

  Collectors knew this was the first Psycho 78s poster to feature Mags’ cat, and many of them even knew that cat’s name. They also had an unfortunate way of dying moments before the MFA destroyed their posters.

  Kaufman rolled it up and slipped a pair of rubber bands on it. It fit in his briefcase, if he set it corner to corner. There. He pulled a small drive out of his machine, slipped it into a black box, and tucked it into a hidden pocket in the briefcase. At least he would not lose all his music this way. He latched the briefcase shut.

  Then he committed the next of several treasonous acts on his agenda. He had monitored a shipment of defensive guns scheduled inbound from Earth. The new generation of railguns came from the Port Authority’s most cutting-edge weapons contractor. The guns harnessed electricity to fire massive projectiles, meaning they could work in any gravity and any atmosphere—or lack thereof. Kaufman altered some warehouse documents to create a lack of storage capacity at the guns’ Martian destination. Then he re-routed the shipment to a temporary holding location on Ceres.

  No one would ever get into a warehouse on Mars, he thought. Even Meteor Mags had said so. But on Ceres, it was a different story. Kaufman authorized all the changes. Then he wiped all his drives and reformatted them.

  It was going to be one hell of a holiday.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  Kaufman cranked the tunes in his vehicle and sang along. “Give me noise pollution. Oi oi oi! Surgical solution. Oi oi oi!”

  Surgical Solution. In 2018, it had been a huge hit for the Sterile Skins, prompting a brief resurgence in ska and hardcore. He remembered it well. Surgical Solution appeared on a list of 100 songs his Youth Committee presented as evidence in favor of the Musical Freedoms Act. By 2020, you couldn’t find the record anywhere. “Maybe you are one of them. Oi oi oi! Gotta rise above them. Oi oi oi!”

  His son’s school came into view. Kaufman calmly adjusted his lapels. “Audio off, please.” He inspected his reflection, adjusting a stray lock of hair.

  He made small talk with the nice lady in the office. “Yes, I’m so grateful. I hope approving our holiday hasn’t put you out.”

  “It was no trouble at all, Mr. Kaufman. Anton seems cheered up by the idea. He hasn’t been himself recently.”

  “No, he hasn’t. Thank you for your concern. If I may be frank. The boy misses his mother as much as I do, and my work has prevented us from spending time together as a father and son should. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course, Mr. Kaufman. Oh, here he comes now. Don’t forget your kayaks!”

  He coughed. “Kayaks, you say?”

  “For your trip! Anton told us all about it.”

  “Ah, of course. Kayaks! Or maybe canoes. I might just change my mind.”

  Kaufman walked his son back to his transport, one hand firmly on the boy’s shoulder. “What did you tell them we were doing?”

  Anton silently stared at the pavement.

  His father walked with studied confidence, but not arrogance. His constant politeness and even temper made it easy for people to like him. His well-known dedication to his work earned him goodwill among the Port Authority’s ranks and the corporation workers. Nearly all of Mars saw Kaufman as a model citizen of the new frontier.

  As soon as the transport doors shut, the boy spoke up. “Our driver’s not here today?”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Does that mean we can listen to that Sonic Youth record?”

  “It sure does.” Kaufman looked at his child. “We leave now, Son. Everything we need is on this transport or waiting for us. Are you ready?”

  Anton watched his school fade away in the mirror. Kaufman had told him the dragon that threatened him was somehow working with the people he worked for. Anton remembered the dragon’s grip. Its breath like something dying. Its teeth a trap of knives closing around his head. Anton shuddered. “No. Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  “Yeah. Audio on, please. Oh, well.” He met his father’s eyes and tried his best to wear the man’s confident smile.

  Kaufman squeezed his shoulder. “That’s my boy.”

  “Dad. Are you listening to that hardcore band again?”

  “Oi oi oi!”

  Anton laughed. “Daaad! Sonic Youth!”

  “It’s up next!”

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  Back at the school’s office, the nice lady spoke into her tablet. “That’s right. He just left with the boy.”

  From the blank screen came a voice. “Very well. Carry on.”

  Then it was silent.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  Traitors, thought Naru. His courtesy and professionalism had won him Kaufman’s trust these past few years as the official’s driver. But in his heart, he harbored a deep hatred for the treasonous merchant. He found it especially despicable the way Kaufman had corrupted his own child with illegal music that surely promoted wanton acts of homosexual sadism and satanic behavior. It would be Naru’s patriotic honor to eliminate them both, though he felt a bit sorry for the boy. He checked his sniper rifle again and waited.

  From his vantage point atop a nearby building, he could see the roadway leading to Kaufman’s private hangar. There, the merchant kept a personal spaceship, one not registered with any authority at all. Naru had visited the hangar more than once. This would be his last time.

  Naru thought of his years of service with pride. But he had never truly served the Port Authority. When the network contacted him with word from the woman at Anton’s school, Naru knew his time of true service had come. Something had clearly been amiss when he received the day off today. Now he would make it right—with two bullets.

  Kaufman’s vehicle arrived. Naru watched it closely through his scope and positioned the crosshairs over the driver’s door. Patience, he thought. Steady now. This would all be over soon.

  Kaufman’s door opened. The scope swiveled to reveal the boy’s door open next. The sniper needed to wait until they approached the door, lest one of them make it back to the car safely when the other fell.

  His crosshairs moved back to Kaufman. The father would be the first to die. Naru tracked him.

  But the man stopped. He waved his hand, signaling the boy to hold back. What was this now? He looked agitated. Naru pulled his eye away from the scope’s tiny window to get a wider view.

  Suddenly, a bullet penetrated his forehead. Bits of his brain and blood followed the slug. It exited the back of his skull. His head snapped back sharply then crashed forward.

  He would never know who killed him.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  Kaufman heard something. He stopped in his tracks, waving his hand behind him. “Son,” he whispered. At the corner of his hangar, a rifle barrel appeared.

  He dove for his vehicle. His body slammed onto the hood. He rolled across it toward the passenger side and landed on his fee
t in a crouch. The sharp crack of rifle fire filled the air. Kaufman threw his arms around his son, pulling him down behind the vehicle.

  A figure stepped forward from behind the corner. A dark grey suit made of flexible Kevlar covered her entire body and masked her face. Then she spoke. “I got him, sir. You’re safe. But I suggest you get on your way right now.”

  “Don’t hurt us!”

  Holding her rifle, she scanned the horizon and the surrounding buildings. “Hurt you, sir? I hardly think so. But the sniper on that building had other plans.” She motioned with the rifle in the direction of Naru’s post. “You need to get inside and get on with it, sir.”

  Kaufman stood. Following the shooter’s gesture to the top of a nearby building, he could just make out the barrel of a rifle protruding over the edge.

  “Dad, who is that?”

  “Who are you?”

  She said, “Even on Mars, the resistance flourishes.”

  From inside the car, a bouncy hardcore song blared.

  Met her at the meeting, oi oi oi

  How my heart was beating, oi oi oi

  She was there for therapy, oi oi oi

  Asked her to marry me, oi oi oi

  Without lowering the rifle, the woman asked, “What in the unholy hell are you listening to?”

  Kaufman’s eyes shifted nervously from her, to the car, and back again. “It’s the Sterile Skins.” He cleared his throat. “Therapy Slut is the tune.”

  The chorus played.

  Therapy slut, therapy slut.

  Such a crazy smile, such a big butt.

  “It sounds like utter rubbish!” She shrugged. “But you aren’t the only one on Mars who likes Texas swing, either. Sir.”

  With a start, he realized who the shooter was. “But how did you—”

  “There’s no time for this,” she interrupted. “You need to go, and you need to go now. Your enemies are everywhere.”

  “Let us hope we have friends, as well.”

  “I hope so, sir. Fair winds.” She disappeared behind the hangar and ran.

  Kaufman entered a code at the doorway.

  “Dad, who was that?”

  “Come on. We need to go.”

  They entered the hangar and locked the door behind them.

  Aboard his tiny spacecraft, Kaufman wondered if it could really be her. But then who was trying to kill him? He thought again of The Crystal Palace. “Son, we have hidden friends. And hidden enemies, too. Even more than I realized.”

  Anton’s face swirled in confusion and fear. He teetered on the verge of tears. “I hope we make it, Dad.”

  Kaufman set a hand on his shoulder. “We only need to make it to Phobos. And then just like magic, we’ll disappear.” Nothing, he thought, could track the vessel he had stowed away on Phobos. Not the Port Authority, not the MFA, and not the dragons. No one. He had named her once, but then he’d changed his mind.

  “Where do we go?”

  “First, we help an old friend. And then, I guess, anywhere we want.”

  “We’re in a fucking shitload of trouble, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, young man. Yes, we are. But we’ll be fine. You’ll see.” Fine, he thought, or thoroughly dead. At least then we’ll be free.

  He launched the ship, taking it through the opening in the roof.

  Anton watched the roof close, and the Martian surface fell away.

  Soon, Phobos came into view. On an encrypted channel, the computer locked on the signal from a secret beacon. The beacon led to a secluded plot on the Martian moon, a plot owned by a shell company within a shell company which Kaufman owned under a fake name. That plot held a comfortable but highly defensible shelter for one to six people. But more importantly, it held the most invisible ship in the System.

  And Kaufman intended to make the most of it.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  Mags took a position to the side of the door and waved her hand to warn Patches away. Patches ignored the signal, pressing her nose to the seam where the door met the wall—until it suddenly slid open.

  A net caught her full in the face and flung her backwards. Claws skidded across the floor. Her feet caught in the strands. She tumbled head over heels, howling her displeasure all the way.

  The second the net hit Patches, Mags swung the barrel of her rifle into the doorway. But another net wrenched it from her grip and sent it down the hallway, too. Then she heard the shrieking.

  Her pupils expanded to maximum size, but she could not believe what they told her. A full-grown monkey flew at her face. She ducked, but she was tackled by more of them. When they pulled her legs out from under her, she landed flat on her back. “Uff!” The wind rushed from her lungs.

  Hands grabbed her all over, pulling her hair. A large monkey landed on her chest. He bared his fangs and screamed.

  She wrenched her arm free, grabbed him by a fistful of hair and ear, and punched him square in the face. She flung him to the side. More monkeys swarmed over her, but through the din, she heard a human shouting in Russian. She knew that voice.

  “Plutonian!”

  “Mags!” He continued shouting in Russian.

  “Plutes, get these goddamn gorillas off me!”

  He shouted back, “They’re macaques!”

  “Fucking whatever!” Mags felt their hands on her face. A finger went up her nose. She grabbed another simian and tossed it aside.

  “Mags, bloody stop for a second!” He went back to Russian.

  Patches leapt to Mags’ side. The sturdy net which had held Plutonian proved no match for her invincible teeth. She bared them at the monkeys and jumped on the closest one. The ferocious attack sent the primate scampering away, shielding his face with his little hands. Patches found another target and sprung again. Her teeth met monkey fur, and she tasted blood.

  “Patches,” yelled the DJ. “I’m trying to tell them you’re friends!”

  She trusted him more than she trusted most humans, but she did not release her prey.

  “Patches, please.” The DJ ducked. Another monkey went flying past his head in the opposite direction. “Mags! Stop throwing them!”

  “Tell them to stop,” she shouted back. She struggled to regain her footing, slapping monkeys away right and left. Her hand closed on the butt of her laser rifle. She pulled it to her. Though it was tangled in the net, she found the trigger.

  Laser pulses filled the corridor with flashing strobes. “Get the fuck off me!” She blasted away at the ceiling and wall, not wanting to hit her friend with a stray round.

  Wild monkey screams amplified the chaos, but the animals scattered. They had never seen a laser rifle before.

  “Mags, please don’t kill them!”

  She stood. Monkeys cowered against the walls. Those nearest the door fled back the way they had come.

  Only the monkey she had punched in the face refused to run. He stood there, his face a study in rage. He bared his teeth, but he did not advance. Neither did he retreat.

  Mags breathed heavily, her chest heaving. She locked eyes with him, watching him fume. “Don’t even think about it, fuckface.”

  Patches rubbed against her leg.

  Beside the angry monkey, the DJ knelt and spoke softly in Russian. Much to Mags’ surprise, the monkey spoke back.

  Patches’ ears perked up. Her eyes went from the DJ’s face, to the monkey’s, and back again. This was something new.

  The monkey relaxed as they talked, but his eyes did not leave Mags. He barked orders in the unfamiliar language, and the other monkeys in the corridor snapped to attention. They followed him back out the doorway.

  “See,” said Plutonian. “A little diplomacy goes a long way.”

  Mags lowered her rifle. “Lovely. But where the hell did you learn Russian?”

  “Army. It’s a long story.”

  “Maybe you can share it with me over tea and biscuits with your goddamn murderous entourage. I thought you were in trouble!”

  “I was.” He stepped up
to her and opened his arms. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Oh, hell.” She threw her arms around him. “I’m just glad you’re okay. They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  “No. I got a few bruises. But it’s fine.”

  “Fine?! I’ll exterminate these fucking things! Nobody touches my DJ.”

  Plutonian raised his head without letting go of her. “We just had a misunderstanding is all. They’ve been here a long time, and we’re their first human contact.”

  Patches meowed.

  “And feline contact, too.”

  Over his shoulder, Mags could see the monkeys watching them. “Now that’s just fucking creepy. Do you mind telling me what’s going on here with your little friends?” His belly shook against hers. “At least one of us finds this amusing.”

  He stepped back. “I’ll fill you in on the way. Come on. We were just going to see the matriarch when we heard a bunch of noise, like a bloody bomb going off outside.”

  “That would have been my spectacular crash landing.”

  “Ah. Is the Queen Anne okay?”

  “She’s still seaworthy, I guess. But she could use some work.”

  “Alright. Will you come with me?”

  “Sure. Not like I got anything better to do.”

  “And Mags, could you please not shoot anyone?”

  She clicked the rifle’s safety into place, slung it over her shoulder, and arched an eyebrow. “Happy now, dear?”

  He spoke again in Russian.

  The lead monkey shouted to the crew, who fell into orderly positions. With a final scowl at Mags, he marched off, followed by his crew.

  Plutonian held out his hand. They followed the monkeys to the central shaft.

  “I’m sorry about the weird message you got. They took my tablet while I was captive, and they didn’t know what to think. They started touching the screen and sooner or later they hit the send button.”

  “And sent me the scariest selfie ever. They had you captive?”

  “Yeah. But then I noticed they were speaking Russian, and I know a bit of Russian. The big guy up there wasn’t too happy with me, but we had a meeting of the minds. They haven’t had any contact with Earth, so I filled him in on a couple things.”