The Radioactive Redhead with The Peach-Blonde Bomber

by John Zakour

  “Look a little harder,” HARA said with a smile.

  I looked for Carol’s auburn hair amid the radiant ruby-haired throng but I couldn’t spot her.

  “She’s not there.”

  “Look past the hair,” HARA said.

  “What do you mean past the …?”

  “Hi, Tio!”

  “Carol?”

  She’d changed her clothes, swapping her jeans and blouse for faux leather pants and half-top to match that of Misty, Lusty, and Sissy. And her hair was red.

  “Don’t you love it?” Sexy asked as the group climbed into the limo.

  “Love isn’t the word,” I said, forcing a smile.

  Carol gave me a hug as she passed.

  “Sexy said I can be onstage with her tonight. We went over all the dance moves this afternoon.”

  “Onstage?”

  “Isn’t it great? I’m a backup singer.”

  “But Carol,” I said, “you can’t sing.”

  “Oh, Tio,” she said, giving me a kiss and climbing into the limo, “you’re so old school.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that a lot lately.”

  I climbed into the limo and settled in the seat nearest the door. Sexy sat in the plush rear seat (a couch really) flanked by Smiles and Carol. Sissy, Misty, and Lusty lounged on the seats at the side. Everyone stretched out and got comfortable, which wasn’t hard in the plushy confines, so I rapped on the Plexiglas behind the driver’s cabin and yelled to HARA.

  “Let’s go. And nothing reckless please.”

  “You’re no fun at all,” she whispered inside my head.

  “How’s it feel, Sexy?” Smiles asked, putting his arm around her shoulder, “embarking of the first of your final concerts?”

  “It’s just another air mile on the skyway of life, Sammy.”

  The girls all laughed, Carol included, and I saw Smiles’ fingers reach out past Sexy’s shoulder and gently stroke Carol’s newly reddened hair. She didn’t seem to mind. And that scared me.

  14

  Backstage half an hour before the show was pure bedlam. Sexy was in her dressing room going through her preshow ritual with Smiles. Carol and the other girls were nearby (though not actually in the same room), limbering up their vocal cords and g-strings. I was still uncomfortable about how Carol was throwing herself into this atmosphere but I had wanted her to get in close to the girls and she reassured me with a few mental messages that she still had her mind on business.

  “Things are all clear so far from here, Tio. Sexy’s safely in her dressing room and the girls and I are pumped for the show.”

  “Are you picking up any suspicious thoughts or vibes?”

  “Not really,” she replied. “There’s some psionic interference in the arena. Plus all these people around create a lot of mental chatter. It’s hard to zero in on any one mind.”

  “So once the arena fills up?”

  “My abilities won’t be much good unless someone gets close.”

  “Okay. Then stay close to Sexy and let me know if any alarms go off.”

  “Got it,” she whispered.

  The crowd was flowing in now, even though they knew that the show would start late (Sexy’s shows were known for late starts). They wanted to be there early and soak up the atmosphere.

  And what a crowd they were; thousands of them, all dressed in bright clothes that were either tight-fitting, see-through, or barely there (sometimes all three). They were girls mostly, though a good percentage of them were male; boyfriends or boyfriend wannabes. And they were all young. Most of them were teenagers. Twenty-somethings in this crowd stood out like senior citizens. I felt like a dinosaur (but I’m kind of used to that). They began chanting Sexy’s name ten minutes before the show was scheduled to start and vibrations from their stomping and clapping shook the stage like a teen tectonic plate shift.

  “That’s it,” I said, ducking into the stage wings. “I’m starting the show.”

  “What do you mean?”

  HARA’s hologram appeared beside me as I walked quickly down the hallway toward the dressing rooms.

  “The quicker we get Sexy on stage, the quicker she does her show and the quicker we can get her out of danger. There’s no point in letting the crowd work themselves into any more of a frenzy.”

  “You have no sense of drama, do you?” HARA said.

  “I have plenty of sense,” I said, stopping at Sexy’s dressing room door, “but I can live without the drama.”

  The sound of the audience was loud even here so I had to pound hard on the door in order to be heard.

  “Sexy!” I shouted. “I think we better get this show on the road.”

  There was no answer.

  “Sexy?” I shouted again.

  Again, no answer. I tried the door but it was locked.

  “Sexy!”

  “I’m getting some strange readings from inside the room,” HARA said.

  “What kind of readings?”

  “Radiation,” HARA said. “Much higher than normal. Not deadly though.”

  “That’s it,” I said, backing away from the door and popping my gun into my hand. “Tight bang!”

  The blast from my gun blew apart the door lock then I kicked in the rest of the door. Its thick body swung open, pulling one hinge free of the jam and bits of the wall away with it. I leaped into the room with gun drawn and some serious attitude.

  “Sexy!”

  She was asleep. Sort of. Her eyes were closed and she definitely wasn’t fully conscious, which sort of implies sleep. But she also wasn’t lying down. As a matter of fact she wasn’t touching the ground at all. She was hovering a full meter off the floor, feet together, arms spread and fully enveloped in a dark red light that was emanating from a projector on the floor.

  “What the DOS?”

  “Zach?” Smiles said adjusting his tie. “I didn’t hear you. Is something wrong?”

  “You tell me,” I replied. “What’s going on here?”

  “Sexy’s in the meditation chamber. She does this before every show to clear her mind.”

  “Why is she levitating?”

  “There’s an anti-grav generator in the projector. The sense of weightlessness helps her focus better. The red light is meant to subconsciously give her a sense of empowerment.”

  “And the position?”

  “Oddly, all performers who do this type of meditation just naturally assume the messianic pose. Go figure.”

  “Yeah, go figure,” I said, popping my gun back into my sleeve. “The crowd’s getting a little out of control. I thought it would be best if we started the show soon.”

  Smiles looked at his watch and frowned, which took some effort considering the size of his mouth.

  “Sexy normally doesn’t hit the stage until forty-five minutes after the scheduled start time,” he said. “But you’re right. We don’t want to create more trouble than we have to.”

  He hit a switch on the projector and the red light surrounding Sexy dimmed slightly and she began descending.

  “It will take a couple of nanos to fully bring her out of the meditation but she should be ready to go soon.”

  He stepped into the light, took Sexy’s hand and patted it gently.

  “Sexy, dear,” he whispered. “Time to wake up.”

  Sexy’s eyes opened slowly and she looked around the room a little confusedly. Her eyes fell upon me and the corners of her mouth turned upward ever so slightly. Smiles leaned toward her and put his lips to her ear.

  “Showtime,” he said softly.

  Sexy’s smile widened into something resembling the grin of a hungry wolf.

  “Oh, yeah,” she whispered.

  15

  When the lights went down in the arena, the audience, already in a frenzy, began screaming in earnest. The musicians were already in their places, instruments and droids at the ready (most live music is enhanced by droid play these days because it allows the performers to concentrate more on their showmanship). Sex
y’s posse, Carol included, ran onto the stage and struck their poses. It surprised me how completely Carol had thrown herself into the new role of backup singer, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. The first bass riff of the intro wafted through the arena like the first trickles of a rising tide and the crowd noise ceased, replaced by the almost palpable anticipation.

  The curtain slowly rose, thin slivers of spotlight began to dot the smoky dark stage, the bass riff rose gently, joined now by a grinding drum beat. Then a throaty female voice whispered over the sound system.

  “Mesdames et Messieurs … amants et rêveurs … bouchers et bétail …”

  Sexy’s form floated toward the stage atop a translucent anti-grav disk. It didn’t look like Sexy, of course. She was wearing clothes, for one thing; a black satin robe with tails that hung two meters past her feet. Her head was bowed, hiding her face from the ambient light. And she was wearing a hat.

  “Is that a fedora?”

  “Looks like it,” HARA replied. “Maybe she likes you.”

  Then a spotlight, so bright it was difficult to look at with the naked eye flared onto her. The crowd roared and the music staccatoed loudly for a split nano. Sexy was the center of attention now, but still hid herself beneath the satin robe and fedora.

  “Je vous accueille là où l’amour ne prend jamais fin …” her whisper echoed.

  “What did she say?”

  “I welcome you to where love never ends,” HARA said.

  “—là où les rêves vivant pour toujours …”

  “… to where dreams live forever …”

  “… et là où la viande est fraîche.”

  “… and to where the meat is fresh.”

  “Gross.”

  “Welcome my friends to Ménage Abattoir!”

  She flung open her robe and it burst into flames as she threw it off. It disappeared in a nano and the crowd roared at their first clear view of Sexy. Her clothes were ethereal white; a barely-there skin-tight halter top, pants that were second-skinlike at the hips and wildly flared below the knees, and a gray fedora.

  The music kicked into gear. Heavy bass, synthesizer and effects. The dancers began moving and the light show on the stage looked like a rainbow in a death match with a lightning storm. And above it all, Sexy began to sing.

  “You love me. Hee, hee, hee.

  I hate you. Ooh, ooh, ooh.

  You love me. Gee, gee, gee.

  I am your master. Faster, faster, faster.

  I am your queen

  I am your wet dream.”

  The crowd absolutely ate it up. They screamed so loudly I thought their heads would explode (I know mine wanted to). And as Sexy bumped and ground ten meters above the stage, bathed in the white hot spotlights and drenched with the adoration of fifty thousand crazed fans, one thought kept repeating itself in my head like a spoofed sample on a dance remix. But before I could say it aloud, HARA did it for me.

  “How in Gates’ name are we going to protect her?”

  “DOSsed if I know,” I mumbled, bringing my wrist communicator up to my lips. “Tony, are you there?”

  Tony’s face flashed onto the small screen of the communicator.

  “Here, Zach. How’s the view backstage?”

  “Let’s just say that there are other places I’d like to be. Any sign of trouble?”

  “All stations have reported in. No problems out of the ordinary. Although one fan got in a scuffle with one of our undercover bots.”

  “The popcorn dispensers?”

  “The guy refused to pay the extra credits for the butter and salt and took a swing at the bot. We had to take him in.”

  “For a salt and buttery?”

  “There’s more room in the paddy wagon, you know. All units come equipped with a specially marked Zach Johnson seat. It has its own muzzle.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied.

  “By the way, is that Carol onstage with the dancers?” Tony asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “She looks really good.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Tony,” I said signing off.

  Back onstage, Sexy had landed her anti-grav disk on the stage and had joined the dancers. She struck a few poses with the girls, blew a few kisses to the crowd and then launched into her second song.

  “I have a love. Yes I do.

  It’s a love that’s steady and true.

  I have a love. You bet I do.

  It’s the truest love of all.

  It sticks like super glue.”

  I could only roll my eyes.

  “How are those earplugs working?” HARA asked.

  “Not well enough,” I said. “I can still hear the music.”

  We circled around backstage for the next half an hour (four songs and two costume changes). My heart jumped every time a crazed fan tried to rush the stage but Tony’s men were there every time to haul them away. I made a mental note to get the names of all the rushers from Tony after his people had processed them, though I doubted any serious assassin would take such an obvious route.

  Sexy was doing a ballad now, slow and sultry.

  “She learned that it’s not easy being rich.

  Everyone feels you’re just a bitch.

  Sometimes she thinks she should just be digging a ditch.

  People love her, yes they do.

  They stick to her just like glue …

  But their love just isn’t true,

  Yes, their love just isn’t true.”

  She was wearing a pink tuxedo jacket and tails with a top hat and no pants (big surprise), crawling along the stage like a sultry cat as she moaned and crooned. She finished with a breathy sigh and rolled over onto her back, arching sexily and lifting one leg straight up as the crowd roared.

  “The recording company is so glad.

  That poor little girl is rich but sad.

  You might think she would go mad.

  You might think she would go mad.

  You might think she would go maaddddd.”

  “You know something,” I said, “now that I’ve seen her in action and have listened, I mean really listened to her music. I realize that … she’s really bad.”

  “You’re just old,” HARA replied.

  “No, this isn’t a generational thing. It’s the basic harmonic truth. This music is just plain bad.”

  “Well, fifty thousand screaming fans say otherwise.”

  “Yeah, what do they know? They’re probably brainwashed.”

  HARA said something as a retort but I wasn’t paying attention because just then I saw half a dozen dark shapes gathered in the backstage area across from me. They were tall men, trim but muscular, all dressed in black.

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “Additional dancers,” HARA replied. “There’s a production number up next.”

  The band segued into a synth number with a slow Middle Eastern-type beat. Sexy popped back onto her feet and began shimmying across the stage, undulating her hips. Carol, Misty, Lusty, and Sissy joined in, though they were two steps in the background and out of the brightest of the spotlights.

  “My body is ripped. My muscles so lithe.

  You can tell I know how to use a knife.

  I’ll be your butcher, you can be my sweet meat.

  Love cutlets. Love cutlets.”

  I turned my attention back to the men in black. They were preparing to go onstage, getting into formation and waiting for their cue. Then as one they reached into the folds of their costumes and then flashed their blades.

  “They’ve got knives!”

  “Cleavers actually,” HARA said. “It’s part of the show.”

  Sure enough the men strode onto the stage and began a hip-thrusting, cleaver-waving dance.

  “Oh, this is so wrong,” I said nervously. “Did you run checks on the dancers?”

  “Every one of them,” HARA said. “They’re legit. Nothing suspicious.”

  The
dancers each grabbed one of the girls on stage (two grabbed Sexy) and did some very expressive hip grinding.

  “They’re all gay, by the way,” HARA continued.

  “That doesn’t make me feel better,” I said, watching Carol doing her share of the grind.

  “I carry a cleaver everywhere I go.

  So I can ravish you from head to toe.

  I’ll be your butcher, you can be my sweet meat.

  Love cutlets. Love cutlets.”

  The music was building in intensity now. The spotlights changed from white to darkening shades of red as the eleven dancers moved faster and the dance grew more intense. The crowd loved it, of course.

  “I don’t like this,” I said to myself.

  I saw a twelfth figure duck in from the shadows. Dressed in black, it had the build of a male, but this one was not a dancer. The body wasn’t as trim. The movements were graceful, but not delicate.

  “What’s that?”

  HARA looked.

  “I can’t tell.”

  “Switch to infrared and zoom in.”

  The vision in my left eye went dark for a nano as HARA switched my vision over to the infrared spectrum. I could see the figure clearer now, body heat glowing hot against the background. It was definitely a man. Tall and heavy, moving quickly and furtively. Clearly no one had seen him but me, but I couldn’t get to him without crossing the stage.

  “Let Tony know we have an intruder,” I said, popping my gun into my hand. “We’re going to need some backup.”

  The man paused in the shadows for a nano and even though his face was hidden, I noticed him look around to see if anyone was watching. Then he pulled something from his coat and moved onto the stage.

  “Captain Rickey says that he has men on the way,” HARA said.

  “Too late,” I said gripping my gun. “The guy’s making his move. Tell Tony I’ll meet him onstage.”

  “Onstage?”

  “Put me in stealth mode,” I said, and ran onto the stage.

  My clothes may look shabby and out-of-date (yes, I’m aware of it, it’s a lifestyle choice), but that doesn’t mean they’re worthless. Actually a lot of what I wear is ripping edge. Take my trench coat, for example. The fabric is interwoven with nano-circuitry which allows it to perform a lot of non-attire-related functions. One such function is what I call stealth mode. The coat uses micro-sized cameras woven into the fabric to record the area around me and simultaneously project it onto the OLED circuitry woven into the coat directly opposite it. So the backside of my coat records the stuff behind me and projects it on the front of my coat. The front of my coat records the stuff in front of me and projects it onto my backside, which to the naked eye, makes me invisible (except for my head).