Meteor Mags: Omnibus Edition

by Matthew Howard

  “Svoboda 9,” said Mags. “It has a nice ring to it!”

  Alonso gave a thumbs-up. “Way better than Octopus Garden.”

  “Fuck the Beatles. Are we ready to head home?”

  “Nah,” said Alonso. “I’ll stay here with the monkeys, if you don’t mind.”

  “What? We just reunited, and now you’re gonna bail?”

  “I needed time off anyway, to jam out some new songs. Maybe your cosmic calamari can help me come up with ideas. And who knows the Hyades better than me? I can help your monkeys get settled on their new tour bus from hell while we fix this place up.”

  “Kaufman will be disappointed he didn’t get to meet you.” She threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “I’ll miss you, dear.”

  He squeezed her tightly. “Don’t you worry, tía. By the time you get back, I’ll have the little vatos jamming out a metal version of the Soviet national anthem. It’ll be chill. You’ll see.”

  Plutonian watched their embrace with no small amount of jealousy. He knew it was a foolish feeling, but he could not help himself. Mags had many male friends, and she could be just as affectionate as she was murderous. But the sight of her in another man’s arms rubbed him the wrong way.

  He distracted himself by chatting with Karpov and the matriarch about what supplies the simian crew would need. He made a list on his tablet: breeding stock of crabs and other sea creatures, various tools and electronic components to rebuild the laboratory, cleaning supplies, and replacements for all the aquarium components damaged months ago in Mags’ and Tarzi’s adventure here.

  Most of the comforts of home the macaques desired could be plundered from the Hyades, but Plutonian found it easier to list everything they could imagine. It was better than watching Mags and Lonso fawn over each other.

  His feelings were no mystery to Celina. She saw them in his eyes every time he looked at her best friend. She had tried to warn him, but she knew the heart followed its own path, one that largely ignored reason. She shook her head. Then she had an idea.

  “Be right back!” While the others conversed, she stole aboard the Hyades and found Alonso’s baritone acoustic guitar. She returned to the gathering and presented the instrument. “Hey, Lonso. How about a song before we go? For old times’ sake?”

  The last surviving member of the Sterile Skins plucked it from her hands. “Only if tía sings it with me!”

  “Right on!” Mags exclaimed. “Call the tune, maestro.”

  Alonso strummed a slightly out-of-tune chord, adjusted the tuning knobs, and strummed again. “I got one. You know Galaxies’ Lament by Snail?”

  “Awww yeah!” The space pirate’s smile lit up the cavern. “Fuckin’ love it!”

  “Then let’s show these monkeys how we do it, ese.”

  “I got the beat!” Celina drummed with her hands on a broken console.

  “Let us in on this.” Plutonian spoke to Karpov and clapped his hands where the snare beats belonged. Karpov barked at his mates. They clapped in unison while Alonso repeated the opening guitar riff.

  “That’s it,” said Alonso. “Keep it going!”

  Meteor Mags launched into the first verse. Her voice resonated in the cavern. She sang about galaxies weeping, and the hearts of protons, of dreams and solar eclipses.

  Alonso banged his head to the ferocious riffs, and he joined her singing at the first chorus. But at the second chorus, an unearthly harmony filled the minds of the humans and the macaques.

  Mags closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the ceiling. The harmony told her the octopuses were singing, too, from the next cavern. In a state of sonic rapture, she sang for all she was worth—which, at that moment, was a considerable amount.

  Alonso improvised a big finish to the song. Without missing a note, he jumped onto the console where Celina kept time. Chopping the air with his guitar, he conducted the group in four pounding beats, all in unison. He leapt off the machinery, furiously strumming a final chord.

  Mags laughed and clapped her hands. The crew of Svoboda 9 joined her applause. She gave her old friend a high five. “You’re fuckin’ amazing. Damn, it’s good to see you again.”

  “We still got it, yo.”

  “And they’ll never take it away.” She kissed him again.

  Deep in the rocky chambers of the once-abandoned asteroid, a swirling, molluscan mind understood its new friends would be a uniquely stimulating experience. It stirred the water with hundreds of tentacles, and their colors changed and undulated with patterns no octopus had ever made.

  Music would be its future. Music, and life. It hummed with anticipation.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  “You’d better have a talk with your boy,” said Celina. She and Mags occupied the loo aboard Plutonian’s ship. They brushed their hair and fixed their make-up in the wake of the day’s events.

  “What boy? You mean Anton?”

  “Not that boy, wagtail. Dr. P.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “You are so clueless sometimes. Don’t you see the way he looks at you? That poor bastard’s so in love it hurts.”

  Mags sighed. She drew fresh black lines around her eyes then handed the eyeliner to her friend. “He’s a cool guy.”

  “He was cool. But he just about lost his shit when you were all over Lonso.”

  “What? Lonso’s my buddy! We were rocking the stage years before the MFA fucked everything up. We’ve been through some shit together!”

  “I know that. And you know that. But does Dr. P?”

  Mags made a pout with her lips and decorated them with a fresh coat of black gloss. “I’ll straighten him out later.”

  Celina slammed the eyeliner on the sink. “I’ll straighten you out! You go talk to that man right now.”

  Mags huffed. “Fine.”

  “Go on, now.” Celina waved her off. “I’ll message Fuzzy or something. Go!”

  Mags sauntered into the cabin. She plopped down in the co-pilot’s chair next to Plutonian. “Whatchya doin’?”

  He stared at the tablet in his lap, not meeting her eyes, moving his fingers over the screen. “A little research. Maybe if I can get my new gear tuned to the electrical frequencies of your octos’ brain waves, we could record their songs.”

  “Can you imagine how many minds we’d blow if you did that? We’re talking about a major shift in human consciousness! We could revolutionize the entire System!”

  “Mhm.” He mumbled without enthusiasm.

  “Listen, dear. Lonso’s an old friend of mine. I booked the Skins’ first two tours on the West Coast and kicked a lot of arse with him and the boys along the way. He’s like a brother to me. Mi hermano.”

  “And?”

  “Damn it, Plutes.” She snatched the tablet from his hand and tossed it onto the console. “Will you look at me?”

  He met her eyes in silence.

  “You can’t go getting all weird on me, man. You and I are partners in crime! It’s you and me and our bloody shotguns against the entire MFA!”

  “So we’re just shooting buddies, then.”

  She threw her hands up. “See! That’s what I mean. You can’t get all hurt over our friendship. I need you by my side—cocked, locked, and ready to rock. Not moping around every time I give someone a peck on the cheek.”

  “You need me?”

  “Damn right, I do! Where the fuck else can I find a DJ like you?”

  He forced a smile. It was not the compliment he wanted, but it would have to do. He held out his hand. “To friendship, then. And the revolution.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Mags gripped his hand firmly, wrapping her fist around his thumb. “To friendship.” She let go of his hand and stood to face him. “I’m glad that’s settled.”

  Then without warning, she straddled him and dropped into his lap. “Now,” she said. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  Back on Vesta 4, Mags kicked her feet up
on a table in the concert hall and caught up with her messages. Following her instructions, Sarah and Anton moved furniture into place for the banquet to celebrate the day’s accomplishments. The pair of new friends joined tables end-to-end until they stretched in one unbroken expanse across the room.

  Friends arrived in small groups until the young women of Club Assteroid filled the hall. Hyo-Sonn interrupted Mags’ typing to report the rail guns were all positioned in the defensive line Mags and Alonso had demarcated along the crater. It would take another day’s work to finish bolting them to the rim. Mags wanted to review them first, so the exhausting day was done at last.

  But the dinner party was not yet complete.

  “Mags!” Celina ran into the concert hall. “Guess who’s here?”

  “Patches?” Mags tossed her tablet aside and leapt to her feet.

  From behind Celina, Patches charged her, and the pirate scooped the cat into her arms for a vigorous snuggle.

  “Baby kitty!”

  Patches chattered non-stop at Mags, who replied to the high points of the narrative her kitten spilled out.

  “Oh, really? How many? Good girl, Patches! He did? That was nice of him.” Mags got down on the floor to romp with her favorite feline. They batted each other and rolled over until Mags stretched on her back and held Patches above her head. She stared with love into Patches’ eyes. Two pairs of green orbs reflected each other like mirrors.

  The image was not lost on Kaufman, who limped into the room with less vivacity than the playful calico. Kaufman suddenly understood the cat who had saved his life with the utmost courage, dispatched his enemies with ferocity, and shown him nothing but tender affection—all as if it were perfectly natural. He knew then his judgement of Mags by purely human standards had always been incomplete.

  He had little time to ponder the revelation. His son ran to him, and the force of the embrace made him stagger.

  “Dad!”

  Kaufman clutched the young man. “Anton. Dear god, how I missed you.”

  Tilting back his colorful mess of spikes and beads, the boy looked up. His father’s injured face stared down at him with shock. At the same time, they both said, “What happened to you?” They laughed at each other without letting go.

  “I brought your guitar,” said Kaufman.

  “Dad, you rule! We totally need it! Sarah and I are starting a new band. We’re gonna be Dumpster Kittens!”

  “Be what now?” Kaufman held his life’s one true joy as tightly as he could. “I don’t know what that means, Son, but I’m sure it will be amazing.”

  “Did you hear my dedication on the radio?”

  “It was perfect.”

  “Oh! I met Alonso from the Sterile Skins!”

  “How in the world—”

  Anton told him all about it, while Celina and her helpers brought out the feast.

  Mags took her spot at the banquet table’s head. Patches leapt onto it beside her, prancing and purring like she was the queen of the universe. Mags rapped a knife against the edge of her glass. “Listen up, crew. This has been an awesome day, despite bad weather, drowning in space, and all hell breaking loose on Ceres. But you have been absolutely incredible through it all, and I thank you for your dedication and hard work. You are the best.”

  “Hear, hear,” came the response, along with “Fuck yeah,” “You know it,” and a wash of indiscriminate noise. It brought a surge of pleasure to the heart of the System’s most hated smuggler.

  “Now,” she continued, “I have some announcements. So fill your glasses and shut the fuck up for a minute, because your dear old auntie is in the mood to celebrate.”

  A chorus of cheers filled her ears.

  “First off, we’ve got the biggest guns in the Solar System guarding this rock now, and we owe it all to our new friend: the recently outlawed and former Chief Administrator Kaufman.” She raised her glass in salute. “Welcome to the baddest crew of criminals to ever violate the Milky Way, you scurvy son of a bitch!”

  Kaufman sheepishly raised his glass. A host of glasses instantly clinked around it in a mob, spilling half its contents. Many in the crew took a swig.

  “Hey, dillweeds! Don’t drink yet! I’m not finished!” Mags glared down the table. “Fuzzlow, I saw that. I’d also like to toast our new friend, Anton, whose hair you bloody Dumpster Kittens so lovingly redecorated while I was getting my arse kicked in a tornado.”

  The liquid in Anton’s glass crashed like waves in response to the hearty battering from his new mates.

  “And let us not forget our little comrades the space monkeys, and my octo babies, and their new best friend Lonso who could not join us tonight!”

  More spilling ensued, and more unauthorized drinking, until everyone had to refill their glasses before Mags could continue.

  She wagged her head in mock disapproval. “Have some goddamn etiquette, people!” She chugged her own drink and gestured for a refill. “Plus, I just got a message from my adorable nephew, and he’s solved a huge part of the mystery of the scum-sucking lizards that have been bothering us. Let’s hear it for my favorite little anarchist.”

  She waited until the applause died down. “Last but not least, ten minutes ago I got word from our pal Slim at Below the Belt. He finally beat the problem we’ve been working on for years. We are about to change the way everything gets done out here in the Belt, and maybe even on Earth. But I’ll tell you all about it later. For now—let’s fuckin’ party!”

  A roar erupted from the gathered pirates, dancers, outlaws, and rebels with nowhere else to go. Over the din, before draining her glass and reaching for the bottle, Meteor Mags shouted, “Vivan las anarquistas!”

  Her party continued through the Vestan night and into the next. But little did she know, on that very day, her crew had sown the seeds of its own destruction.

  EPILOGUE: OVERLORD OF DARKNESS

  “Bye, Mum! Bye, Dad! Love you!” Tarzi waved until his parents’ car disappeared from sight. He walked back into his house and shut the door. “Alone at last.” He turned on the stereo system and brought up The Glowing Man by Swans. Adjusting the volume to an earsplitting level, he felt a sense of peace wash over him. “That’s how you make a fucking album.”

  From the closet in his room upstairs, he gathered his tablet, a 22-ounce bottle of beer, and a pack of stolen cigarettes. He set them all on the coffee table in the living room as the final album from his favorite band vibrated the walls.

  For a moment, he considered waiting to make sure his parents weren’t coming back for something they’d forgotten. He chugged half the beer and lit up. The nicotine and alcohol entered his bloodstream, and he no longer cared. “They won’t notice if I only smoke one inside.”

  He was correct, but not about the reason why. He expected they would be gone for three weeks. Tarzi did not know he had just seen his parents alive for the last time.

  Oblivious to this unpleasant future, he immersed himself in the ancient past. As Swans droned their crushing beats into his skull, he slowed his breathing and focused on the sonic pulse. Farther and farther apart the beats grew as Tarzi entered into what Mags called “his trance.” This meditative talent slowed time for the young man. It allowed him to process months of information in a matter of minutes.

  He needed it. The scans Donny sent him yesterday held a treasure trove of the dragons’ history and their secret origins—all in their unfamiliar language. Bit by bit, the adolescent broke the linguistic code.

  It told how the reptiles had begun as dinosaurs, discovered the technology for space travel millions of years before humans, and set about enslaving or persecuting other species until they gained control of what was now Central America. It was the same location where his parents had been summoned.

  Tarzi shuddered. This must be the ancient civilization the mining company had unearthed, though “civilized” seemed inappropriate. The dragons had paved their way to outer space with genocide and torture.

  This history bec
ame clear as the sun set and stars twinkled in the sky, but parts of the book remained inscrutable. With Mags’ help, Tarzi had developed a thorough understanding of trigonometry in the past two months. But now, he confronted theoretical explanations of spacecraft construction and propulsion systems, all written in advanced mathematics instead of words.

  He could make neither heads nor tails of them. Swans’ double-disc album finished, and he was ten minutes into Radio Birdman’s Radios Appear before he gave up. He set his tablet beside him on the couch, lit another cigarette, and sent a message to Mags.

  ★ ○•♥•○ ★

  curryandchaos: you around? i got some work done on what you sent me

  flagofnonation: the book we found? what the hell is it

  curryandchaos: the history of the lizards. and a bunch of crap i don’t understand about their science

  flagofnonation: no fukn way

  curryandchaos: srsly. i’ll get a translation typed up for you of the parts i can make sense of. what’s up with you and patches? i heard about some tornado thing on ceres and it sounds like all fuck is breaking loose in the belt

  flagofnonation: she’s on her way home. i’m sure of it. don’t worry about my little calico. i’m a bit pissed because she hasn’t pm’ed me from her thirdlife account or anything

  curryandchaos: thirdlife? are you kidding me? that shit is so lame

  flagofnonation: whatever dillrod! patches has a bomb-ass thirdlife account. her screen name is calicorca resident

  curryandchaos: the fuck is a calicorca

  flagofnonation: it’s like a killer whale but with splotches of brown like a calico. get it? her profile description says death panther overlord of darkness

  curryandchaos: lol! you two don’t actually play there together

  flagofnonation: fuck yes we do! my account is daisyflower resident. you should log in with us sometime and check it out