Neon Dreams 4d1z53

Neon Dreams

Neon Dreams

james callan

atmosphere press

© 2021 James Callan

Published by Atmosphere Press

Cover design by Ronaldo Alves

No part of this book may be reproduced without permission from the author except in brief quotations and in reviews. This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to real places, persons, or events is entirely coincidental.

atmospherepress.com

To Finn, for being the fuel in Neon Dreams. To Christine, for being her pit crew. Without you, she would have never seen the finish line.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

Paladin Square was in the very heart of Troubadour. Troubadour… city of shit. Nah… not really. Sure, it was a bit of a heap. But it was also a place to live, and living is better than dying. In truth, it was known as the city of poets. A thousand years ago some geezer wandered out of the jungle and sang a song about how he found his true heart’s home. His name long forgotten—known simply as the Poet—he founded a small farming community that over time became the mega-metropolis we now call Troubadour. Living beats dying, eh? Maybe not. I know some guys born and raised in Troubadour… they chose death. Bought the farm and didn’t bother to ask the price. Just pulled the trigger, popped a handful of funsies on a quaff, or jumped off Poet’s Pride. Tallest building in Troub, that. Then again, that lot had some shitty parents. Parents will do you dead if you let them raise you too this or too that. Me? I never had any. Or did, off and on. But an orphan’s tale is as commonplace in Troubadour as fishes in the sea. Let’s not go there. There’s a better tale. And it began in Paladin Square, the very heart of Troubadour. If you like people-watching, Paladin Square was the place to be. Every sort of person, every imaginable variety, crisscrossed the crowded city space each and every day. Each and every night. Millions of them. Endless. Constant. People, people, people. The commuters and the locals, the business blokes and highclass dames, the street vendors, the shop keepers, the pushers, and the peddlers. The tourists—droves of them. The school kiddies, the cabbies, the couriers, and the cops. The whores and burnouts. The Borgs and Bots. The Vamps and their detestable thralls, the want-to-be immortal dead, the religious goths. The dog walkers and street performers. The regular Joes and the double-take head turners. The homeboys, the homewreckers, and the homeless. The “what-thefucks,” the “don’t I know yous,” the “I want to know yous,” and the wholly,

absolute, and utterly unremarkable. Every single type. There was one, however, more remarkable than most. The sight of her was something else. Her? Maybe not. It would take a closer look. Her… Him… whatever. There was magnetism. A real pull. Sunset cast an orange glow on the paved concrete, a mosaic of chewed bubble gum and tenacious weeds. Spires of brick, metal, and glass glinted blinding yellow light, reflecting the blood-red throes of the day’s glorious last minutes. Squinting in the harsh shrapnel of the day’s last light, s/he sat at a table casually sipping a pisco sour. Woman, I decided. But only by a hair. I could be wrong, of course, but my heart sang loud when I gazed at this one and I’ve never known a bloke to do the same to me. The crowd around me faded to nothing. That girl that might be a guy and her pisco sour was all that existed at that moment. I was hooked. Her beverage and attire went hand in hand. Lemon-lime vibes all over. Canary and cream, make me scream! Bright yellow leather from head to toe, a second skin, with a stripe of sea green and a slash of fuchsia. Mint and magenta highlights here and there to break up the sheer boldness of the banana peel leather. Fingers capped in lacquered lime and parakeet polish drew circles in the sweat of her drink. At first, she looked bored, but I could tell she was focused. Zeroed in. As much on someone or something in the crowd as I was on her. I tried to follow her gaze but gave up. I’d rather continue to look at her, transfixed as I was. Her face was perplexing. A work of art. Makeup loud and proud in certain spaces, totally bereft in others. Baby blue eyes flanked in dark teal eyeliner, geisha motif, and upper-lip-only glossed in ultra-pink. All of this under a closecropped quiff of poorly bleached blonde hair. It had an intentional look, that rusty yellow. Cheap and trashy, but with effect. There were no accidents here. She knew what she was doing. Her style was somewhat garish, I’ll give you that, yet in measure, it remained subdued and tasteful. I’m no expert, but the look had as much class as it did cool. When I think back upon that moment, I think upon jewels on junk. Diamonds scattered on crumpled magazines. Treasure on trash. Sparkle and flash. No attempt had been made to blot out the imperfections. A moderate bruise under the cheekbone and a small constellation of acne along the jaw. Badges of

authenticity. A real girl. That’s good. Manufacturers weren’t likely to equip one of their robo gals with bruises and acne. Living, breathing, flawed… perfection. She barely sipped at her pisco and set it down in such a way. I didn’t miss a detail. Full absorption. I must have been in outer space, staring at this girl, because I was getting odd looks and irritable remarks as I stood stone still, an obstruction, in the otherwise fluid throng. “Piss off,” I half-heartedly muttered to someone who cursed me as they ed. I edged in closer, worming my way through countless annoyed strangers, and found a comfortable spot at the north fringe of Paladin. Wax palms edged the buildings in a line, growing an impressive fifty metres from enormous ceramic tubs. I hoisted myself up onto the lip of a container, wondering just how many layers of graffiti coated its surface. Thousands of tags and crude marks, each overlapping the other, a cycle of pointless and futile branding of the self… a model of impermanence; an urban anicca. From here I had a better vantage of my sweetheart. Her pisco had been drained, I noted. That was fast work, considering how diligently it had been nursed. Perplexing. Or not. Hell, maybe the thirst came upon her. It was the hour… I had a thirst myself. Banana Leather’s leg bounced from underneath the table. Nervous? Anxious? Couldn’t put my finger on it – and, oh, how I wanted to put my finger on it—but the whole process had some awkwardness to it. And not a little. Her movements were intermixed, a grab bag of clumsiness and grace. The pisco doing its thing? I doubt it. Unless it was her third, or I mistake her character entirely. This chick looks the type that can knock back a few and brandish her wits all the same. But how the hell should I know the least thing about her? Simply put, I didn’t. A thought crossed my mind; maybe she’s a he in drag? That would be a major drag. It would explain the movements and mannerisms at odds with the external package. Whatever, I’m in love either way. Erstwhile golden hues of the dying day had given way to night and the city came to life in a barrage of light and stimuli. An ejaculation of electric splendour burst forth from the placidity and mundane of the diurnal. Neon signs flashed slogans and ments, each a steady metronome of unique pace and buzzing colour. Mammoth screens flaunted videos of mega-models holding this or that

product with seductive promise and allure. A toothbrush, a golf iron, a portable vacuum. Fuck me with your eyes and buy my products. Megaphone and loudspeaker competing for attention. A flood of music from each and every open door of each and every shop. Call girls calling out. Drunkards shouting bad jokes and opinions. Little ants, all, under Troub’s biggest and brightest… corporate spires and residential towers, bathed in brilliance, each trying to outdo the other, each belittled by Poet’s Pride. The big P.P. Shining golden, a massive monolith piercing the very heavens. You could never lose your bearing in Troubadour… not with the Poet looking over you. The fountain at Paladin Square lit up. Its central figure, the Poet, moved to tears by the beauty of his song, wept two luminescent streams from his eyes. Spotlights trained inward onto the buildings of the square, shining alternate purple and orange. The wax palms cast huge, slender shadows behind them, and the atmosphere of the public space became less business-like, more relaxed. More rowdy. It was enough to distract me momentarily from the plucking of my heartstrings. Jesus… I sound like the Poet himself. The pisco had been replaced with a new one, untouched. Again, that beautiful androgynous stranger zeroed in on something. It pained me to remove my gaze from her glory, but I was determined to learn the subject of her interest. A parting in the crowd revealed a gang of unsavoury scabs. Stim Junkies, by the look of them. Seven or eight, all making a right raucous, no respect. One of them leaned over the lip of the fountain to fill a cup with the poet’s tears. He looked half-dead, a gray shadow of a man, but lit up real fast—mega smile and wide eye —as soon as the cup touched his lips. His lank hair came out in clumps as he pushed it aside to upend the heavily chlorinated soup, washing down the three or four zebra-print funsies he popped into his gob. Shit... that’s an early start to a heavy night. If he lives... Another one of the stim-heads openly groped a half-conscious girl. She part giggled, part belched, so strung out on this and that and whatever she could get that her very own name was likely unknown to her at this stage. Neck smothered in wet violent kisses, savage nibbles, her head lolled back and vacancy took her. Backward into the fountain she went. Splash! A wave rushed over the fountain and onto the square wetting the nearest erby. “Fuckin’ Hell!” He shouted. “Goddamned idiots!”

The stimboy who had allowed the girl to fall laughed full in the stranger’s face before turning to vomit into the fountain. He paused to study a holographic projection of a large koi distorted by the flotsam of his last meal. Some random and concerned stranger fished out the drowning lady from the Poet’s tears. Saved me the trouble. I returned my gaze to the girl with the pisco. Such was the contrast from heinous to heavenly that I stumbled and nearly fell from my lofty perch upon the ceramic tub. I steadied myself, back leaned against the coarse trunk of the wax palm and reflected just how enraptured I was by this odd stranger. I blinked like an idiot in disbelief, like some cave dweller emerged to face the morning light. She had me, heart and soul. This woman that I am 70 percent sure is a woman and dressed like a radioactive banana. She had me. I am hers. Me, a puppet bound and commanded by strings of infatuation, attraction, and who knows whatever other unknown force. And her, my pisco princess, pulling the strings. Fucks sake... I really have become the Poet. My enamored state put on hold, I sobered to note the fury and concentration settle over my girl’s oh-so artful face as she stared down those stupid stim fucks. She gripped her drink with force and buried those beautiful blues in downcast eyebrows. She stared with intent. And with deadly promise. She was fucking pissed. Even so... beneath the rage, I could discern the ghost of a smile. She was pissed, but she was excited. At that moment, an unease settled over me with palpable force. The air around me suddenly became heavy and the mood within Paladin Square carried with it a sudden flavour of violence. An imminent danger. I reached in my coat pocket and fingered my Colt .45. Her cold metal edge reassured me. Big Blue. That’s what I called her. Some fucker I know borrowed her to use as a cosplay prop and spray-painted her sky blue to suit whatever moronic guise matched this or that beloved comic book character. So yeah… she was blue. And she packed a giantsized wallop. Big Blue. Tension was building in Paladin Square. Tonight was bound to be a head fuck, I thought. …I wasn’t wrong.

RAT RACE

The Stims had had enough of their early evening comedown. The time was nigh for a pick-me-up. Tonight they were on Juice. “Live hard, die fast.” That was the common slogan of a Juicer. The drug stimmed you up real good. Made you a god. Made you strong. Made you fuck like a rock star. Casanova meets King Kong. A real beast. But the comedown was hard. It took years off your life. Slowed metabolism to a virtual standstill. Wreaked havoc on your insides. Pushed your heart to the limit. Vision blurred and other senses weakened with repeated use, dexterity and common functionality slowed. Thoughts became disted, speech slurred. Some heavy s even lost the use of their limbs. The highs were high and the lows made you die. Typical creed of a Juicer. The junkies fell quiet upon the arrival of their Stimlord. Some tall, pale creature with a dangerous look that said rather frankly to the world, “Fuck with me. I dare you.” The look of him made me shiver. Even Big Blue felt pointless in my pocket. Despite his villainous look and overall cast of menace, he approached the group with a warm and endearing smile. “Ratlings,” he greeted. “Time for some cheese!” His hands plunged into deep pockets and surfaced with fists full of contraband. If someone was expecting a wedge of camembert or cheddar no one showed surprise or disappointment. He tossed the drugs before his feet like treats for a pack of dogs. The Stimmies went wild. They were popping, sniffing, injecting, inhaling. Glazed-over eyes became sharp and aware. Gaping, slack-jaw mouths snapped tight. Loose limbs became ridged. Limp dicks, erect. Slow, labouring heartbeats quadrupled their pace. It was like watching corpses rise from the grave. Things really started to feel like they were heating up. Shit was cooking. And shit felt like it was about to burn. I turned to check in on Yellow and, sure

enough, she was hot and bothered, all worked up. Ready to blow. She sat still as you please, ass firmly on chair and hand idly holding drink… but her eyes. Those big baby blues. They were alive and they were on fire. Zeroed in on that Stimlord and his so-called “ratlings.” This was what she had been waiting for. This was why she was here. “Alright, my ratties!” The Stimlord shouted. “You’ve had your feed. You’re feeling good. Your little rat feet are ready to run the wheel.” He was not close, but I heard him clear and distinct. He was centre stage and all of Paladin Square seemed to hush when he spoke. His voice carried like an orator. “Yeah… I reckon it’s time.” Time? Time for what? Blue-Eyes twitched and seemed to enter another realm. Her focus was supreme. Her devotion to that focus, almighty. Her awareness funnelled into a pinpointed target. That target, alas, was not me. This allowed me to vacate my post and edge closer to her, unnoticed. With each step, my infatuation deepened. I stopped when I had got rather close. The view lent a tremendous image. I think I sighed out loud. A proper swoon. Despite the appeal to her visage, a well-masked anxiety did not go unnoticed. White knuckled and almost imperceptibly tense—but tense as fuck—all but a few subtle signs would have you believe she was as cool as a cucumber. More like a hot red pepper. Nothing mild about it. “Well, then?” The Stimlord slyly addressed his ratlings. “Shall we?” A pause. Silence. Gulp. I swallowed. Paladin Square held its breath as one. Daddy rat flashed a wide and wicked grin. “Let’s rev and ride!” “Rat race!” The ratlings answered, fists held high by bony limbs.

And now his grin became positively demonic. “That’s exactly right, ratty rat rats.” A truly frightening sight. Then he took up some sort of disgusting rousing carol. “Rev and ride. Rev and ride. Rev and ride. Rat race!” The chant was fevered. Manic. Spasmodic. “Rev and ride. Rev and Ride.” Horrid, crazed, tribal weirdness. Gave me the fucking creeps. “Rat race!” Mega willies. Heebiefucking-jeebies. Pretty Pisco calmly reached across the table and unfolded a pair of yellow leather gloves. Her attention never diverted from the stimmies as she methodically pulled them taught over her lovely lacquered outstretched fingers. She threw some coins on the table and pushed back her chair. She looked on, silent. One last analysis. Then stood with intent and purpose. “You can finish it,” she said. To whom she spoke or what she referred to was anyone’s guess. “You can finish it,” she repeated, then turned to look me straight in the eye. “My drink,” she urged. “You can have it. Don’t let it go to waste.” Her gaze entranced me through and through, body and soul, and I stood there, idiotic, and stared. My heart skipped a beat—probably several—and I drowned fully in the depths of those baby blues. “Go on,” she coaxed. “Or not,” and shrugged. And quick as can be she walked away and into the crowd, confident strides lead to the general direction of the chaos presently witnessed. I blinked. Took a breath. And stared some more. She must have been aware of my presence the entire time. Of course she had. Silly dumb fuck! She’s legit. Mega badass. And me? Acting all covert… what a joke! Oh man, I felt a right ass. Embarrassment, full stop. Still… a giddiness took over me. She looked at me. She spoke to me. She offered me her drink! Don’t kid yourself, fool. She only did that to show that she was on to you. Still… my heart fluttered. I shook my head and came to my senses. Lovesick and dumb, I blinked away the malaise, the confusion. I turned to the crowd. There, in the throng, a vague shimmer of bright yellow. Let that be my beacon. But first… I rushed over to the pisco sour and cupped it in my hands like it was the Holy Grail. I held it dear and placed my upper lip just so over the imprint of ultra-pink

left on the rim. My heartbeat quickened. My loins stirred. I let the alcohol slowly enter my mouth and held it there for a lingering series of seconds before swallowing in one, massive draught. Divinity. Utter bliss. I set down the pisco and turned to pursue the woman—or man—of my dreams. I went to follow the beacon. Don’t you dare lose sight of it. I won’t. * * *

And I didn’t. Not for a second. Though strangely, it’s much harder to person-watch than to people-watch. Even if they are dressed in loud yellow leather from head to toe. For that, at least, I was grateful. In the mighty throng of Paladin Square, a single sardine blends in with the shoal. Still, I managed. And a good thing too, because right about now that gaunt fucker of a stimshit was squaring down my golden girl, vibes all threatening, predatory posture. “Ho! Ho! Little ratties! What have we here?” The rodents scurried to his summons and huddled together. They poised, ragged breaths, fully amped and drugged up; a sickly, super-charged posse. “Looks like the Neon Queen has come to pay her disrespects. Treat us ratties like vermin. Take the cheese and eat it too.” The juice was doing its thing. Eyes manic, teeth gnashing, veins bulged and pumping stimmed-up blood at full pelt. The Stimlord and his crew were itching for some action. “No one takes the Rat King’s cheddar. No one but the Rat Man, himself.” His cronies hooted and frothed and gnashed, salivating at the notion of savagery and sadism. “What have you to say, Lady Bright? Any words for the rat?” This “Lady Bright,” the “Neon Queen,” she stared nonchalantly. A picture of calm. Perfectly poised. Hell, she looked positively bored. She paused for just a moment, gloved hand raised, and I swear it was to stifle a yawn. Bad. Fucking. Ass. When she spoke, it was in a tone both confident and serene. “You sure do

talk a lot, cheese breath rat bastard. Are we going to race or what?” Cheese Breath scowled at his adversary but remained deathly silent. Paladin Square was rife with tension. He reached crosswise over his lanky form to fondle a scabbard at his hip. Rat Man cocked his head and sneered, and slowly—ever so slowly—unsheathed his blade. His rodent posse held their tongues but heaved with laboured breathing. He pointed his sword at Banana Leather. Except it wasn’t a sword, I realized. It was a crowbar. There he froze, fully dramatic as if posing for a movie poster or waiting for the curtain to fall at the end of a dramatic performance. “Well?” Neon broke the silence. Hand on hip. Cool as hell. “Well and good.” The Rat King nodded. “Well and good.” He sheathed his crowbar—I got the feeling he liked to draw it and sheath it often and readily. He offered one last withering glare. “This is the last night you’ll ever race, bitch.” “Sure, rat. Sure.” Half amused, half impatient. Neon smirked and tapped her foot. “Well let’s not fuck about then, eh?” His face a frenzied nightmare. “Let the rat scramble begin!” And all hell broke loose. The juicer gang burst into action. Frantic and overeager, they made a mad dash for the fringes of Paladin Square. There, illegally parked in a bold collection of blatant disarray—a “fuck you” to the basic edict of city ordinance—were the various rides, all gunmetal and matte black, belonging to the stimmed up ratriders. They jumped and slid over hoods. Ignited engines. Revved and honked and burned rubber in circles and figure eights. Such was the synchronicity of their movements that the whole thing could have ed for some choreographed show. Perhaps it was… One of the figure-eights ended by crushing over a bewildered pedestrian. Her howls were drowned in the roaring of the rat engines, screams lost entirely to wild cacophony. Clutching at a shattered mess of bone and ragged flesh spilling from her skirt, the hapless victim flailed in sheer agony. Her handbag spilled all manner of personal belongings as a crew of vultures descended to claim

whatever scraps they may. Shit was going down…. and shit was going bad. Blood pooled on the pavement. Paladin Square went fucking nuts. Sheer motor madness. Pandemonium. Rat King, hands in pockets, leaned back against the boot of his ride. In the midst of the chaos, he was a picture of calm. A focal point to the madness. The eye of the storm. All around him people scurried and screamed. Rat riders swerved and sped over Paladin Square like it was a playground for their high-amped antics. Shit hit the fan. Hit left, right and centre. No matter, it would seem. No big deal to the Rat Man. He observed the chaos around him with casual acknowledgement, mild amusement, and general approval. It pissed me off. Made me fucking sick. “Yo, rat cunt!” Big Blue was out and locked in on that dip-shit cheddar breath. “Call off your goons or I’ll turn you into Swiss Cheese.” It was lame but seemed in theme. If the Stimlord was perturbed he gave not an inkling of indication. “The Rat Race is on, boy. Nothing can stop it now. Not you,” he chuckled. “Not that blue toy, neither.” No one calls Big Blue a toy. “Race is off, rat bitch.” I declared. The gun made me bold. Made me act bigger than I was. Gave me powers that I didn’t actually have. “Stick your hamster prick in someone else’s ass… this is my town.” It made me downright silly. A bonafide clown. A real fool. I trained my Colt .45 on the front wheel of the Rat King’s ride. I gave that bastard a cocksure smile and pulled the trigger. That will surely end his stupid race. Yeah… not so much… Clean ricochet. What’s worse, someone screamed and hit the floor. I think Big Blue took down a man. Bystander. “Them’s my cheese wheels, son,” the Rat King proudly remarked. “Mega ‘P.,’ those. Forged off-planet and harder than even your thick skull.” I lowered my gun and looked on, dejected. The Rat’s ride was black as ink,

windows and all. It could have ed for the Batmobile, a true work of badass. Ultra cool. Its wheels, however, were different. They stood out from the rest. Bright orange. The colour of flame. The colour of sharp cheddar. They had that particular gloss… Mega Plastic. Off-world shit. Synthetic armour. So Big Blue was a toy, after all. The rat laughed. He must have seen my spirit sink to the gutter. His hands emerged from his pockets and I looked on as he did what only a stimpunk would ever do. He took a cartridge of juice and inhaled once, twice, thrice. Like some kid trying to put down an asthma attack. He let the empty contraband fall to the floor and proceeded to pop some funsies. One after the next. Zebra, Tiger, Snake, Crab, Eel. Five. Each its own flavour. The man was fucking insane. Certified. One hundred percent. No less. There was a general rule of thumb regarding funsie consumption. A simple guideline. Your basic need-to-know should you consider taking any. If you were a stim junky it was etched deeper in your brain than the ‘ABCs.’ It was as common as common knowledge could get. Rudimentary funsie 101. Goes like this… One for some casual fun. Two for the hard and the addicts. Three was risky. Four was stupid. Five… five was fatal. Six or more? Just a waste of money and perfectly good funsies. Three breathes of the juice and five funsies in one go? The man was suicidal. Dead already. His bloodstream was a reservoir of a week’s worth of hard drugs. If he lived the hour I’d be fucking stunned. “Oh baby!” The Rat shouted. “Now THAT does the trick. I’m ready to ride. Ride HARD.” He stepped into his vehicle and turned the ignition. He revved so hard it was a REVolution. He rolled down the window and turned to face me with the craziest pair of drugged-up eyes I’ve ever seen… by a long shot. “Say, my friend,” he said calm and cordially. “just who in the fuck are you, anyway?” I gulped back the pisco that had been rising in my throat. I’m pretty sure I was trembling. Big Blue shook in my grip. I searched for words… Out of my peripherals an angel came to the scene. Saved by the Neon Queen. My shining beacon. My beauty. I jerked my thumb in her direction.

“I’m with her.” The Rat took it in. He frowned. There was some real bad blood between those two. He looked at me and gave me the head-to-toe. “You ain’t half bad, stranger.” He smiled warmly. “But I’ll be killing you before sunrise. Killing you real slow. There’s something of a rule, my son…” His smile withered. “You don’t fuck with the Rat.” His back arched in a wild spasm before he regained control. “Can’t hold back this high no longer. I’m ripe for the race. Ready for the ride.” And he was gone. Zero to sixty in a blink of the eye. The noise and shock made me fart involuntarily. It was like a bloody gunshot. Those wheels could move. And on the turn of a dime, his entourage followed suit. A pack of frantic rats. They raced in the wake of their Lord down the nearest street at a breakneck pace. Taillights left motion trails in the night. A dust cloud formed and eventually settled. Paladin Square when silent. Troubadour’s citizens were nonplussed. Then all at once they turned to their neighbour and shouted about whatever the hell had just transpired. Neon looked on as the rat crew sped off down the lane, then turned her attention to me. “I’m with her,” I had said. I winced, expecting a reprimand. Surprisingly, she smiled, then quickly hurried off past the edge of the crowd. She turned a corner down a narrow back alley. Follow the beacon. My mantra. I caught up to the Neon Queen just as she was getting into her ride. And wow…. what a ride. It was its driver, personified. Elegant but strong. Smooth but hardedged. Beautiful but badass. Hard-fucking-core. A lovely enigma. Canary yellow with streaks of lime. Magenta highlights that surfaced in an opalescent shimmer depending on how it caught the angles of the light. This thing was a work of art. And something else… something strange. Along the sides of a translucent body was a collection of interwoven tubes. What they were was well beyond me. Neon revved the engine. Then it suddenly became clear. The tubes lit up in synchronicity with the revs. Each vroom illuminated the night with echoes of light. Yellow, pink, and green. A complex knot of interlaced

ribbons, one as luminous and bright as the next. Each rev corresponded with an input of light. The louder the rev, the brighter the light. Pretty colours reflected off windows and paint peeled brick. The otherwise dim-lit alley became a veritable light show. Neon lights. I worked it out. Neon light inside the car… and the brightness of it “shed light” on why they called her the “Neon Queen.” VROOOOM. An explosion of light and sound. She was ready to ride. “Wait!” I shouted feebly. My voice lost to the domineering decibels of an angry engine. “Wait!” I repeated. How she may have heard me was inconceivable. I couldn’t even hear myself. Yet she stuck her head out the window and waited. She looked at me and once again those baby blues made me weak. “I can help.” The offer came across as rather pathetic. I showed her Big Blue. As if that made my offer legit. What it did was make me look a complete fool. Again, that smile. “I can handle it myself.” I was grateful for our dim-lit position as I blushed a telling shade of rose. “But thanks anyways,” she offered. “Wait!” I repeated. Desperate for more. Desperate for anything. “Look, man,” she said. “I appreciate your concern. But I’ve got this. Okay?” She was about to speed off. “Just tell me one thing,” I pleaded. Mercifully, she waited. “What’s this all about? Who the fuck are those junkies and who the double-fuck is that Rat Man? What’s all that shit about a “Rat Race.” And what’s your part in it?” And who, most importantly, are you? What, exactly, she then said to me, I cannot . It was concise. It was short. It was to the point. Then she was gone. Shot like an arrow out of the alley and off after the rats. Her trail a blaze of streaking neon lights. What she said, verbatim, I just can’t recall. But the gist burns crystal clear in my mind. “Let the juicers kill themselves,” she more or less told me. “Let them run amok. Let them tear up the town. Paint it red, or whatever other colour they fancy. They

can party all hours of the night and still have the energy to dance, fight, fuck, repeat.” She made it clear that she could care less. None of that factored into her actions. “But outrace me?” And here she got serious. A bit scary. “No fucking chance, mister. No fucking chance.” And as her car took off, fast and bright as lightning, I fully believed her. She was a demon behind the wheel.

* * *

So, there I was. Alone. The last trailing lights of neon turned the corner, leaving me in a solitary, dank gloom. Brilliant streaks lingered in bright tallies across my vision; canary, flamingo, parrot… then those, too, faded. The din of Paladin Square was mute and muffled from this shadowed crevice of urban byway. Angry engines roared and revved, diminishing with distance. Follow the beacon. Too late for that. Or was it? I ran. I ran as fast as my cheap sneakers could carry me, plastic soles splashing oilslick cigarette water up my shins and onto my shorts. City filth sloshed over my ankles to absorb into my cat-patterned socks. Favourite pair. I didn’t care. I had shit to do. And shit needed doing fast. I turned the corner and looked in the direction the Neon Queen had zoom-zoomzoomed. Nothing to show for it but a line of burnt rubber that communicated as clear as letters, “I’m outta here. Catch me if you can.” Doubtful, that. But I had a fever on me and it burned determination. I ran some more.

This was pointless. It’s not like I can run down a hot rod racer. Even if I did have a decent pair of shoes, which I didn’t. Two-dollar shop. “Made in a sweatshop” written on the tags. May as well have. I stopped in my tracks to hot-wire the nearest vehicle that wasn’t a family minivan. There. I eyed a halfway decent ride. Looked like it had the specs to make some tracks. Some seri-ous MPH. Did I say hot-wire? Couldn’t begin to guess how. I took out Big Blue and was about to give the window a tickle. No time for finesse. But a stroke of luck came my way that changed the name of the game. Some well-to-do flashy pants came out from an upper-crust-only establishment. At his elbow was a high-society girl, pretty and privileged, spilling sexuality from a wisp of a dress that cost a small fortune. The well-garnished gentlemen twirled a pair of keys around his finger and “beep beeped” his set of wheels. I was going to jack whatever extravagance was his. Lucky for me he didn’t use a valet. Lucky for me he drove a Lamborghini. It was sleek and slender and had that look that boasted sound velocity. Legit speed. Light blue and ladylike, it had grace and beauty. Streamline and sylphlike. I could not have found better had I searched all night. And I didn’t have all night. I skipped across the street to the handsome couple and introduced myself forthright. “That’s a lovely ride you have,” I said. “It’s the same colour as my gun.” The fancy man turned to look down the barrel of Big Blue. It jutted out over the bridge of his nose. I pressed the cold steel between his eyes. “Keys.” I extended an open palm. The Lambo was mine. In dead earnest, I offered to take down the man’s address so I could return his car the following morning. Despite my sincerity, he thought it prudent to decline and ran rather hastily away. His date, flustered and afraid, quivered in her elaborate dress. I put away Big Blue and smiled, thrust my chin in the direction of her departed date. “Lots of fish in the sea, sweetheart. You can do better.” Whatever her reaction, it was lost to me. I was gone. VROOOOOM. Damn this Lambo had legs!

I cruised at fuck-knows what speed—I never checked—and hoped for a glimpse of the Rat Riders and the Neon Queen. The speedometer shot up like a teenage boner in the presence of a nice pair of tits. Streetlights and stoplights be damned! I was moving real good. Me and Lambo Calrissian were rockin’ the roads. Tearing up the turf. I was sure to catch up. I just had to. Follow the beacon. But the beacon was lost. I was going fast but I was going nowhere. Going breakneck in an aimless and frenzied speed binge. The city blocks came and they went. Where the hell was the action? Where the hell was Lady Bright? She was playing rat-catcher somewhere in the mega vastness of Troubadour’s spidery grid. She could be anywhere… I’ll never find her now. I pulled over the Lambo and killed the ignition. The jig was up. I slumped. Dejected. Forlorn. The cops will be looking for a certain stolen vehicle and it ain’t exactly discreet. I had best abandon ship. And right on cue with the low light of my tale a glimmer of neon sparked in my peripherals to jump-start my aching heart. There she was. The Neon Queen. Drifting at gorgeous-ly high velocity in that utterly unmistakably light show on wheels. She was coming from the road on my right, and she was coming real fast. Swift as the swiftest of winds. And she wasn’t alone. The Rat King in his ratmobile rode neck-and-neck with the Neon Queen, cheese wheels working furious speeds. The Stimlord howled with an excess of energy and gripped the wheel with a crazed determination. Flitting in and out of the lead, his ultra-stimmed senses aided him as the two rivals danced the motor tango. The light and the dark, an epic race of the good and the bad. Or so it seemed to me. Trailing the central figures an entourage of rat racers managed to keep pace with the action. Fifty shades of gun-metal gray. They’d be ing by in less than a jiff. I turned the ignition to wake up my lambo. Gave her some gas and she purred real nice. It was time to the race… I revved up good and timed some speed when the motor storm came blowing past. And there I was, tailing the King and

Queen with the rest of them. Pistons under pressure. Pushing pedal to the metal, pushing the needle, and pushing my fuck-ing luck. I was hard out rockin’ the road. Vroom City. Go-mode. And it was then, trailing those fiends of the road, those motor ghouls jacked up on juice, those drugged up rat stimmies and their fuckface cheddar king, that odd and com-pelling androgynous neon beauty... it was then, as my lambo, fast as she was, slipped further back, losing her quarry, falling behind in the wake of racer madness and expertise... it was then, and only then, that I deciphered the true nature of this so-called ‘rat race.’ It was hardly a race at all. Not really. No more, in any case, than it was a group of cars moving fast as hell in competition with each other. But no true race. There was no finish line to cross. No course to stay. No circuit to loop. No flags. No checkpoints. No fans. There was no pit stop to fuel. No green for go. No team for tuning. No medics for tending. And there sure as hell weren’t any rules. This was a wild shit show off the bloody rails. A pedestrian grinder. A road rules breaker. A felonious glut of racer chaos. A death ride in the night. This was fucking NUTS. This “rat race” was nothing shy of a hot rod free-for-all. Pure, unadulterated, motorist madness. A speed first, safety last, affair. And these players knew the game. It didn’t take me long to realize that I had no business being there. Not in a personal sense—although that too—but in the sheer level that I was being outclassed. These fuckers could race something badass! Rat scum or not, they owned the road. That was not up for contention. Unless, of course, you were the Neon Queen. Me? I had no chance. Try as I might, I just didn’t have the stuff this lot was made of. We weren’t cut from the same chequered flag. With each minor turn and gentle curve, my lambo fell further behind. But I held my own long enough to witness some serious mad action. At the forefront the Queen worked her neon magic, lighting up the road with radiance and illuminated violence. She threw those pesky rats off the road. One, two, three. Delicate twists, subtle turns, precise, spasmodic, abrupt. She weaved and snaked

and darted about, confusing her pursuers with a kaleidoscopic dazzle of neon flourishes. Instincts and reflexes inhumanly sound. Predictive evasions spot on. Lady Bright did her thing. She did it real good. She drove like the road goddess of mayhem. It was a bloody sight to behold. The rats got angry and made their move, but the Queen was full in her element. She saw them coming and wasted no time. She closed the door to their attack. With micro rotations of the wheel, she dodged and then struck, calculated movements of impeccable grace. It offered a high-octane picture of road-rage artistry. And still I fell further behind. I watched and I marveled. I was entirely out of my depth. She doled out love taps and high-speed kisses, deft and surgically apt. Not an ounce of control, not a fraction of speed, nothing was compromised or lost. This was a pure and seamless economic attack. It did the trick real nice. The seemingly gentle nudges were aimed just so, timed just right, and sent those rats in a real tizzy. Some spun out, others forced to brake, and some crashed full and outright. One lost its edge and barrel-rolled through the air. For a second I thought I was in the cinema because I swear it was like some Hollywood stunt. His ride took a wicked turn down a pedestrian byway and came crashing to a halt when it col-lided with a night market fruit stand. The car was totalled. The driver, dead or dying. The fruit stand, an explosion of splinters. Chunks of fleshy red fruit shrapnel littered the night market. Pieces of it hit my windshield. Or were those pieces of the vendor himself? Things were getting too hot for my taste. And I was falling behind, besides. The Troubadour City Mega Speedway was raised up to my right, running parallel with the rat action and racer antics. I took my chances and took the first on-ramp too. With a little luck, up high and above, those neon lights wouldn’t evade my sights. Follow the beacon. I’ll try my damnedest. And I sped down the ten-lane TCMS, full pelt lambo action. Sweaty palms slick on the wheel. A spare eye on the chaos below.

SOMETHING I COULDN’T BELIEVE

So I was cruising the TCMS. Pushing major triple D’s on the MPH. 160. Straight line. Hard out vroom. I hit the FM in hopes for a decent tune. And... Meat Loaf, “Bat out of Hell.” Are you kidding? Perfect. Except it wasn’t. Not up here. Down there, in the rat show below, it fit like a pair of well-worn driving gloves. Apt to a T. But up here... the vibes were rich with calm. Real chill. I think I must have been holding my breath because I inhaled deeply for the first time in what felt like forever. It was almost peaceful. The “Loaf” would be wasted on such tranquility. I punched the console. A random jab at the aquamarine dials, square-shaped, one through six. The jukebox shuffle gave me Moonlight Sonata. Big B. And I ain’t talking about Big Blue. Beethoven did his thing. Hitting the keys just right. Somber notes in sync with the road. My nerves were officially calmed. Ludwig dished out the melancholic mood. I let it wash over me like warm rain, like a hot-spring dip, like the evening’s first drink. My iron grip on the wheel loosened a degree and my shoulders lowered, less Quasimodo. The speedometer was begging for a snooze, but I put my foot down. Pedal to the floor. I pushed the needle and kicked my steed. L.V.B. continued whispering the sonata slumber. My psyche had been like an unmade bed, duvet in disarray, sheets all higgledypiggledy. A proper post-fuck portrait. The girl, the rat, the racing... it wired me up something frenzied. But the peaks and valleys to a mountain chain of frayed nerves had been pulled nice and taught, made real straight, smoothed out and sorted. Up here in the lofty heights of the TCMS, I looked down upon my quarry. I rocked the lambo at breakneck. Little traffic, no obstruction… I soared like a majestic hawk. And what hawk, I ask you, would bulk at a pack of rats? So I did my job. I followed the beacon. And with ten lanes of wiggle room, I matched the pace of the race. I held my serve. And even doled out the occasional

ace. With speed at my back and resolve in my gut, with love in my heart and lust in my loins, with a handicap bigger than god-fucking-zilla... I felt like the King of the road. And down below, the Queen of the streets. She tore up the road real good. Exuding neon flotsam in the wake of her speed, she shot like a bolt of yellow lightning. Her ride illuminated the rats on her heels. They gnawed and they gnashed, they swerved, and they sped, and despite it they fell behind. Only the Rat King made a show of it. His cheese wheels spinning mad revolutions, his bloodstream corrupted with super juice. He rode in the wake of illuminated splendour, his Ratmobile a bumper’s width behind. And despite the craze and chaos below, the TCMS was calm. Lambo was insulated from the evening air, a cozy atmosphere encapsulated all to her own. Interior, luxurious, a wealth of niceties and comfort, serenely cast in the dim-lit sea-green glow from the console. Recumbent within, relaxed and at ease, I observed the night in quiet. Layer upon layer. Level upon level. The endless spread of the metropolitan city sprawl. From the chaotic, multicoloured street level to the stark summits of corporate towers. The Poet’s Cock, erect and monolithic, sheathed in a glow-inthe-dark prophylactic. Poet’s Pride. That grand and majestic pin-nacle. It outdid its brethren. It shouldered above the rest. The night was alive, bejeweled in light. Night-mode in all of its glory. Like so many diamonds refracting light, scattered on a backdrop of plush midnight velvet. The city shined. The city sparkled. City of Poets. City of shit... Troubadour, I must it, in her nightwear did much to bedazzle. Near at hand, thirty meters below, in the umbra of archi-tectural giants, the rat race raged, full steam ahead. A fuck storm of neon action. It eventually gave rise to authoritative alarm. I’m surprised it took so long. Not far off a siren’s song gave chorus. And not the type to steer ships into rocks or seduce stalwart sea captains. No bewitching enchantment to these shrill cries. They rang into the night and they demanded—not asked—“pull the fuck over,

and pull the fuck over NOW.” The black and the white. The oink patrol. The bobby boys. The fuzz. The buzzkills. The doughnut dunkers. The rain on your parade. The coppers. The pigs. The police. A pair of them trailed behind the rat action. They sped with good speed as the traffic obediently parted for their approach. From my vantage, the scene unfolded like high-lighted marks on a city map. I saw it play out as it happened. The road lit up, and this time it wasn’t in neon. A glittering of sapphire and ruby rain cascaded down a dark artery. The avenue bathed in a fast motion shower of alternate blue and red. The dreaded gumshoe strobe. The lawman’s disco. Those cops moved well. But not well enough. They were skilled in the seat behind the wheel, and that’s a fact, but they were up against petrol heads of the third degree. Not even the most seasoned of sausages were spicy enough for that level of heat. They fell behind and they were promptly forgotten. It’s as if they had never been. Eyes back on the race, my heart skipped a beat. The rat had assumed an advantage. He took the lead and pressed an attack, his cheese wheels jutting serving spears the length of your arm. The Neon Queen was taking heat. I killed the classical music and held my breath. Heart beating out of my chest. A metronome of nerves and fear. The Sultan of Stims was making mean waves. His spears tickled the Queen. She evaded, just, but lost some control. The momentum had taken a shift. The Rat King had found his stride. A stimmed-up superman, he worked the road something manic. He was on top, the very peak of his game. A freak behind the wheel. Cheese-themed rims like a dry cycle in the wash, spinning a savage orbit round some smoking rubber. Full throttle matte black horror, a nightmare of the road. A furious shadow in the dark. Black on black, a projectile of doom, the embodiment of a nighttime gale. The tide had turned, the rat was in rule, it was dire-fucking-straights for the Queen. Then I saw something I couldn’t believe.

Now, don’t mistake me. When I say that I saw something I couldn’t believe, I don’t mean “wow! That’s incredible!” I don’t mean “what are the odds! That’s one in a million!” I don’t mean “are you fucking kidding me!?” I didn’t merely witness something odd, rare, or outlandish. I by no means wish to express that I observed a feat of exceptional skill, luck, or even magic. I didn’t blanch at some paranormal spook. I didn’t behold the second coming. I didn’t see a hole-in-fucking-one. I wasn’t dumbfounded, elated, or impressed. Neither do I profess to have seen a miracle. When I say that I saw something I couldn’t believe, I mean that what I saw... I COULD NOT BELIEVE. Literal. In every sense. So what did I see that I don’t believe I saw? I’ll tell you and you can choose to believe or not to believe that I did or didn’t see what I don’t believe I saw. That rat bastard stim-shit had the race all but won. Game. Set. Match. He pressed his attack and fate looked pretty grim for the neon rider. Checkmate. Rat King takes Neon Queen. One hand on the wheel, one out the window, crowbar aloft and poised for the kill, Ratman sped his Ratmobile in a direct thrust that looked to be the finishing move. And here’s the bit I couldn’t believe, and wouldn’t, not fully, for some time. At the moment of her impending demise, the end to her luminous legacy, the Neon Queen’s vibrant ride took on an unprece-dented transformation. From its metallic body a spectral light show of shimmering avian appendages sprouted bright into the night. Whatever drugs I forgot I had taken that night kicked in. What the hell was in that pisco? Because what I saw was beyond the realm of sobriety. Let’s not mince words. Let’s say it like it is. The car had grown a fucking pair of wings. Yeah, I know. Don’t get me started. But that’s what my eyes were telling me I was seeing. Feathered wingspan, an an-gel’s mantle, neon-lit from root to tip. They jutted, angelic, tucked in, and streamline, a seraph speeder was born. Soft and ethereal, large and luminous, a-light, aloft, and aglow. Enveloping their host like a mother cradling a child. A heavenly hug. A celestial squeeze.

The neon rider was sheathed in brilliance, cloaked in a flawless defense. Fore to aft, hood to boot, smothered in a protective sheen. Downy scales transitioned in hue, a weave of complexity of light. From pink to purple to blue to green to yellow to searing gold. The surrounding streets were bom-barded in an eruption of lustrous confetti, peppered by radi-ance, a kaleidoscope of colour. City blocks showered in a vomitus upheaval of sheer and stupendous luminosity. The rat’s offensive arsenal was thwarted. He stared in fevered disbelief. Dejected. Defeated. Done. What the fuck was he even looking at? His drugs weren’t meant to do this. I saw him suck down a fresh cartridge of juice. A gesture of rage. An act of frustration. A respite for the ruined rat. For all the good it would do him he may as well take another.… he may as well take six or seven. In the face of his opponent his days were done. Those unearthly wings unfurled. And good god, they were bright! Even up here, raised up on the TCMS, I had to take my hands off the wheel to shield my eyes. I squinted against that wild blaze, blind to the road, and against better judgment, pushed Lambo to greater velocities. I caught the glimpse of a billboard, “Slow Down. Save Lives.” I scoffed. Speed up. Save time. I rocked my ride to max cap. And it was a damned good thing I did or I would have been eating a full course of neon dust. In a single flap from those cherubim wings, ride and rider rocketed forth. A thunderclap slap of herculean fuel injection. Vroom times vroom squared. The queen and her ride ate a quarter-mile in an instant, down the road she went. Bye-bye. Gone. She screeched into spin-out, 540 degrees, and revved like a motor god in heat. Poised to raced back in the opposite direction. The world stood still. I think I pissed my pants. Those spectral feathers stretched and spanned and boasted some mean dimensions. A real epic spread. My eyes watered against the savage glare. I blinked and whimpered and ground my teeth. And fuck... I pulled over and closed my eyes. Troubadour’s lights drowned out. The night went white. Vision stolen in a supernova of bright. I vaguely heard the collection of traffic grind to a screeching halt. The TCMS went dead. I let the seconds . I sat tight for a spell. I trembled and bit my lip. All the world was comatose. Everything went quiet. Frozen. On pause. The city bathed

in light. At some stage, I must have sensed an end as I hazarded a peek, the utmost of caution. Troubadour flaunted its usual cityscape brilliance. The TCMS came back to life. And over the rim of the speedway down below the wings had withdrawn and vanished. What exactly happened I’ll never know, but whatever it was had been fucked up. The Ratmobile was in pieces and shreds. Cheese wheels upended and spinning to a slow. The Rat King himself? A collection of gore. A broken heap. A red stain of modern art on the pavement. Those angel wings dished out a seraphim slam. A biblical beating of holy dimension. I swallowed back bile and gathered my senses. Gathered my nerves too. I ignited Lambo and veered down to street lev-el. I marveled at the size of my balls. And there she was, the Neon Queen, Lady Bright, the archangel of racer chaos. Engine steaming, ignition idle, she emerged from her ride, canary leather skin tight. She turned to face me, gaze hidden behind the mirrored visor of a racer helmet. I was beyond fear. I was wired and elated. A nimbus of crazed vibes crackled around me. I was supercharged. And silent. I waited. And waited some more. What the fuck was I to say? She removed her helmet and lowered it to rest on a narrow hip. Her bleached shorn hair was slick with sweat. Matted, disheveled, and a mess. A bead of moisture ran down the bridge of her hawk nose. She licked it as it found the corner of her mouth. Her odd and eccentric makeup was a ruin of smears and smudges. A whirlpool of masculine and feminine. A yin of boy and a yang of girl. Man or woman? Who’s to say? I’d never seen anything half so sexy. My androgynous angel. “You,” she said. “Me,” I agreed.

She eyed up Lambo. “Nice ride.” “Yeah. Thanks. You too... obviously.” I swear this girl turned me into the dumbest man alive. We stood there. Wordless. In the middle of the street. Our two respective flashed out sets of wheels shining badass for all of Troubadour to see. It was a bit awkward. That gap of silence. But I didn’t mind. I just drank in the enigma before me. My neon nymph. My petrol princess. Never mind that I just witnessed who the fuck knows what—some odd and amped up automotive Armageddon—that there was a dead and decimated corpse at our feet. Never mind all that. In the presence of that racer beauty, in the throes of infatuated fever, nothing seemed to distract or matter but the warm and fuzzy feeling rumbling in my gut. The flutter of my heart. And still, the silence carried on. When I reflect on it I think she may have been simply catching her breath. Taking stock of reality. Getting over the shock. Or maybe this was an everyday sort of head fuck for the likes of whatever type of person she may be. The norm. Standard issue. Who knows? All the crazy things I saw that night. All the illegal shit I witnessed. All the drugs. The dead bodies. The high-speed violence. The paranormal fucked up weirdness… at this stage, it wouldn’t be all that odd if I ended up coming to harm if the Queen decided I’d seen too much. It wouldn’t be too off-script if she did me dead right then and there. Still… I had to ask. “So,” I ventured. “What the hell were those wings, any-ways?” She could have said anything. She could have done anything. She could have pulled out a gun and shot me right in my big fucking mouth. I would not have been surprised. “I’ll tell you later,” she simply said. “But I need food in my stomach and a hot shower.” “I know a place,” I offered. “It’s not far. Best sushi in town.”

“Nah,” she said. “Not while things are hot. Gotta get my ride off the road.” She looked around, scanning for the blue and red flash. The cop-capade. “My place isn’t far.” She then gave me a look I had not yet seen her give. It said rather amicably “you’re alright.” It melted my heart. “Think you can keep up?” Now this was surprising. Follow the beacon. “I think I can manage.”

And we were off.

ON THE NIGHT BEFORE

What I was expecting when we got to her place, I wasn’t exactly sure. No idea. Not the tiniest of clues. A big who-the-fuck-knows hung in the air. Anything goes. The night was a strange flavour, a one-of-kind wild ride, an exotic dish that left a lingering aftertaste that suggested it was anything but over. Who’s to guess what course may be served next? What dessert may clear our palate? All I knew… I was hungry for more. You can’t really predict the nature of these strange, stand-out, whirlwind evenings. Hell, at this stage I’d hardly be phased if a T-Rex crossed the street and made me brake to a screeching stop. To be honest, at the rate the evening was going, I’d probably be more surprised if the Queen and I sat on her couch and watched a T-Rex cross the street, Jurassic Park winding us down after our road-rage madness. Hand in a bucket of snacks, taking in that classic scene, the big lizard harassing two kids in a glass-domed vehicle. Jeff Goldblum making jokes at inappropriate times. Yeah… I think I’d probably be most surprised by that. Still… it was that kind of evening. Anyone’s guess was as good as the next. I dated a cyborg once. Years back. The only thing I can compare with the absolute strangeness of this evening were some of the nights I would spend with her. Synthia… she sure as hell was a weird one. Not really her fault though. Her personality chip started to fuck up. Big time malfunction. Of course, the computer drugs she had been ing, that was entirely her fault. But after her head started going all haywire and her personality was all compromised to shit, two things changed in our relationship. One, the sex was wild. No complaints. Two, she starts going down this road of obsessive fascination in old shit. Real old shit. Movies and music. First, it was films from the turn of the century. You know, stuff my parents might have grown up on—whoever the hell they were. The kind of sappy drivel that was all the rage in 2200. Android Soaps and cheesy dramas about the colonial

settlers of Mars. Soundtracks crammed with roborg ballads and vampyre boy bands. That stuff she made me sit through… let’s just say I’m glad it didn’t last. Synthia’s sexual energy became more rabid as the days went by. Seriously, we were putting all sorts of kinks in “kink.” And her obsession… the old movies and music, it descended deeper and deeper, further back into time. Her chip malfunc-tion seemed to gravitate towards an era hovering just before the year 2000. Like I said, old shit. But the sex, it was wild. So I stuck around. But here’s the thing… the movies she was showing me. The music. We’re talking ancient stuff. Tunes and flicks as far back as 1980. Paper money and electronics with plugs and outlets. Caveman era. Dinosaurs. And Jurassic Park. Synthia was showing me all that stuff, and get this, it was all fucking awesome. So we’d have this wild, rodeo sex. I mean, total gym workout kind of fucking. Naughty as hell. Raunchy, and then some. Then we’d just movie marathon the hell out of the night. RomComs from ancient times. Comedies or dramas from when my great, great, great, however-many-greats, great grandparents watched them. Music too. And all of it, I’m telling you, was primo shit. Tops. To be honest, I probably would’ve dumped Synthia much sooner had it not been for her malfunction. The sex was too good. The movies and music, even better. Weird, weird times. I cruised down memory lane as I cruised down the road in my stolen Lamborghini. I was keeping pace with the car that had sprouted a pair of wings. Weird, times. For sure. But not nearly as weird as this. It wasn’t long—the speed our wheels were eating up the road—that we got to where we were headed. Big building. Tall and dark. Impressive but a bit gloomy. We submerged to an underground car park where Neon and Lambo took a welldeserved nap. What I was expecting now that we arrived at her place… that remained a total mystery. What I was expecting of her place. Well… that was a whole other unknown. But I didn’t expect this.

We had gone up and up and up. Took ages. Or seemed to, in the awkward silence confined within that tiny box of an elevator. I confess I didn’t mind the summit. Mirrored in the metal led walls around us were angles of the Neon Queen my eyes had not yet had the pleasure to observe. Fingerprints and a mild distortion took away from the perfect picture, but my imagination was at work and I was happy for what I was given. The ascent came to a halt somewhere beyond the 50th floor. I noted that much. And while I was distracted from some of the finer details by the allure of shapes and curves in the reflective of our slow-moving vertical transporter, it crossed my mind that such elevated living came with a likewise elevated expense. Lady Bright, it would seem, had cash to spare beyond the expenses doled into her decked-out set of wheels. We emerged into a corridor and walked to the far end. Slowly, methodical. The silence was starting to unnerve me. I opened my mouth to speak once or twice, but nothing came of it. I held in what may be a little more than just a fart. Breaking the silence seemed sacrilege. Most of all in that particular way. I soldiered on. Speech and gas suppressed. “We’re here,” she said. I let it out… slow. Covertly. What a relief! We entered her place. Fart and whatever smell expunged. Left behind. Inside was a well flashed out pad. Rockin’ real estate. Dynamite digs. Yet for all its glitter it lacked the essence of gold. How do I explain? It lay somewhere between luxury and squalor. Or had a bit of both. This high up, fifty plus, it would cost banging bucks. No doubt about that. Corner flat, windows facing two full sides, choice views of old Troub. Buena fucking vista. Yet the furnishings were a bit drab. Well worn. Stained and sloppy. Sofa, in tatters, cushions massaged countless times by cat claws. There was no bedroom in the open plan. Instead, in the far corner, up against the glass, a twin mattress stacked on a shabby springboard. Crumpled clothes and towels piled nearby seemed to suffice, a makeshift use of cupboard or chest of drawers. The kitchen was outfitted in super appliances. State-of-the-art shit. “Woah! You got a Gossip Gal!” “Yeah. She talks too much.”

Gossip Gals, or Gossip Guys, were kitchens or bathrooms or entertainment centers or whole houses or flats that were outfitted with artificial intelligence. They assisted with simple tasks and shouldered the more mundane burdens of daily life. Turning on the lights, flushing the toilet, heating a meal, locking the doors, playing back messages… the kind of things that anyone can do but appreciates done for them while either having their hands full or simply wishing for indulgence to that extra plateau of laziness. That, and as the name suggests, they can talk. With countless varieties of settings to outfit their owner with an appliance just right for them…. personality, tone of voice, sense of humour, kinks, fabricated backstory, whatever. They filled the void of quiet and loneliness. Some came with a projected holographic image. Popular among the rich and single. An introvert’s answer to the lonesome condition of preferred solitude. I’d never seen one before. “Would you like me to prepare you a meal?” A robotic, professional female voice came from an unseen source. This one, evidently, had not yet been programmed to specifics. It retained its factory setting. “Um… yeah, actually, that would be really gr-” I was cut off. “Shut up, Cindy.” The Queen said, “We’re getting take out.” “As you wish, Nova.” Nova. A name! Nova. Nova. Nova. Nova, the Neon Queen. I smiled. Then frowned. While it probably better suited a woman, it was more or less gender nonspecific. Chameleonic, as ever. Shapeshifter. Fluid. On the fence. While my upbringing, my conditioning, wanted me to settle on the straight side of the fence, I found myself caring not at all. I’d hop that fence back and forth. I’d teeter on the top. Whichever side, Nova was the one. “Here,” she said and tossed a takeout menu at me. “You order. I’ll be in the shower.” “Sure,” I fumbled at the foldout pamphlet. “What do you want?” She shrugged. “Whatever.”

I perused the Chinese dishes. “Holy shit! These guys cater to Vamps! Blood noodles. Blood dumplings.” “Yeah? So? We are in a Vamp neighbourhood.” I did note the blood bars on our way. The submerged car park. The stairs all going down to subterranean entrances. The overall gloom and unease in the city streets. Vamps, or Vampyres, historically a menace, a plague, marked and shunned as evil beings. Now, in recent decades, by law and by right, were citizens like the rest of us. Not entirely different from the fictional monsters of their name-sake, they feasted on blood, were creatures of the night, and while they didn’t live forever, they certainly stretched out the years well beyond normal, uninfected people. They preferred human blood above the rest, but city-dwelling vamps were all ed in the annex. They had to play by the rules. No kill-ing sprees or blood orgies. No blood guzzling without consent. They didn’t really have a hard time of it. Survival was easy in the city. Vamps had a healthy cult following. Religious goths. Vampyre want-to-bes that happily played the role of pet, of partner, of slave. Contracted or outright owned. Living food bags. Most with the hope to one day be granted that infectious bite. The eternal kiss. To inherit the bloodlust and all the pow-ers and eccentricities that came with it. “Just a bit weird is all. Noodles cooked in blood. Gives me the shivers.” “Listen to you. That is so 21st century. Get with the times, man.” “Chill, babe. I’m down with the Vamps. Hell, maybe I’ll order some blood dumplings.” “Do what you like, but you’ll be cleaning up the mess if you hurl.” She disappeared into the bathroom, the only room self-contained from the open plan. I decided against the blood dumplings. Ordered us some sweet and sour soup. Two portions of mock duck and vegeta-bles. I decided to splurge, got us some plum wine, and asked for extra fortune cookies. When Nova was scrubbing away and getting clean I found further evidence of

the Vamp-friendly locale, and further testament, too, that her flat spared no expense. The windows that stretched the length of the North and East face of her apartment were equipped with touchscreen capabilities. Ad-justable dimness and opacity. One could enjoy the view in blazing noon-day sunlight and still be bathed in shadow from within. A vamp could happily live in these quarters or be guest to its accommodating lodgings. I started to move towards the bed and the pile of clothes, but Cindy came to life and tsk, tsk, tsked me. “Please step aside from Nova’s personal effects.” “Yeah, sure. I’m not snooping or nothing, Cindy.” “I would never presume. Would you like me to make you some food?” She added. “Nah, thanks Cinders. Grub’s on the way.” “As you like.” Nova emerged from the bathroom, clean and wet, decked out in cozies from head to toe. Loose tee shirt several sizes too large. Frayed pajama bottoms. She worked at her bleached blonde hair with a towel. “Your turn.” “Huh?” “Your turn,” she repeated. “There’s a fresh towel on the rack.” “Uh… I think I’m good.” “No, your not.” She insisted. “You smell like shit, and I’ll not be put off my meal.” “Fuck’s sake…” I submitted. “It’s just a bit odd.” “What is?” I scratched my head. “Well, it’s just like, ‘nice to meet you, come on in, take a shower to wash the high-speed race off your skin.’ It’s all a bit fucking… I don’t

know… fast.” Nova continued to shuffle her hair in the towel, then threw it to the floor with the rest of the pile. “First the vamps… now the shower? You’re way too uptight.” I blinked. I stared. I submitted to the will of the Queen. I shuffled, head down, in the direction of the shower.

* * *

So I undressed in the bathroom and did the old scrub-a-dub-dub. Awkward as hell. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate washing the nervous sweat and stink from my body. Felt damned good. It’s just, you know… I was in my birthday suit and slick with soap in a stranger’s shower. A stranger whose name had only just been revealed to me. And mine, unasked for, yet revealed to her. A stranger who I glimpsed in a crowd and diverted my evening to antics of theft and threat and full-throttle chaos. A stranger who killed a man not an hour past. Who sprouted a pair of fucking neon-light wings and lit up the town like some goddess in rage. A stranger—ahem—that I devoutly fancied. So yeah, I wasn’t exactly comfortable. Certainly far from relaxed. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was sort of in heaven. Gripping that shared bar of soap, rubbing it up and down, and working the suds something special… I had my lewd thoughts, my erotic ideas. I even reached between my legs for a bit of some selfservice before slapping my forehead and shaking my head. I was all worked up. I turned off the heat and let the ice-cold stream put out the fire. I dried myself off and put on the same clothes I arrived in. It was unpleasant but they were all I had with me. I scanned the floor for a pair of panties, the doorknob for a hanging bra. Nothing perverse. Just wanted some confirmation. Surely, she’s a woman. Right? I found myself smiling at the lack of evidence. I wrote “Nova” in the condensation of the mirror and encased it in a heart. I then wiped it clean and exited to the main room.

Mock duck and vegetables had been arranged on two plates at a card table between kitchen and bed. They steamed delicious vapours into the air. My tummy rumbled. Nova sat at one end of the table and had already started her meal. “Food’s here,” she said. “It’s fucking delicious. Take a seat.” She pushed out the opposite chair from under the table, revealing a smooth ankle and barefoot, toes painted in silver-blue glitter. They clashed with a complete lack of style or coordination from the dull, sea-green nails of her hands. I found that endearing. Found it sexy, too. “Thanks,” I dug right into my food. We ate until we were both finished. Hardly a word. Hardly an exchange of any kind. The plum wine was on the kitchen counter, the fortune cook-ies nowhere in sight. So, with no other props but an empty plate to divert from the conversation, I decided to break the silence with a question very much on my mind. “So what in the out-of-this-world fuck did I see happen tonight. I mean... not the whole night. Though it was, in gen-eral, a rather bat-shit sort of evening. But you know... those... wings. That was totally unreal.” Nova stared at her empty plate. She drew circles in the sauce with her chopsticks. Sad and despondent. “I mean... fucks sake,” I continued. “Did what I think I saw even happen? I swear I was sober. Am sober. Not for long, I hope... but I am clean as a goddamned whistle. Faculties at prime. I know what I saw.” Her silence was getting me a bit worked up. “I didn’t bloody imagine that flash of light. The whole TCMS went dead!” Really worked up. “I saw no less than a dozen junkies bite the bullet chasing your lit-up rig. If they didn’t buy it on the spot then they’re certainly in a bad fucking way.” And still she sat there, etching inward spirals into the liquid dregs of her meal. “That rat corpse sure as shit looked real.” Nova set down her chopsticks. “Poor Francis.” “What?” “I suppose he had it coming. Stimmed up as he was, he wouldn’t have lasted the evening anyhow. This morning was his last dawn.”

“Huh?” I knit my brow and felt my mouth hang open. I must have looked a complete fool. “Francis? The Rat King?” “He wasn’t always known by that name. Francis McCurdy. Decent bloke in his day. Before the stims took over. Warped his mind.” “Francis McCurdy... doesn’t really carry the same weight,” I opined. “Not the name for a gang leader. I think I’ll remem-ber him simply as the Rat Bastard.” “He really wasn’t that bad of a guy. If you knew him before.” She explained. “He spent a week in the sewers once. Troubadour’s underground intestine. The Poet’s belly. Noth-ing to eat or drink. Just a bag of funsies, a stash of coke, and a cartridge or two of low-grade juice. He emerged from that cesspit a changed man. Deranged. Completely fucked in the head.” “Yeah. And I bet he smelled like shit.” “How he smelled was the least of his problems. He had lost the plot. Loco en la cabeza. He crawled out of the Poet’s asshole all cloaked and covered in soggy rat pelts. Didn’t carry a knife... they say he tore the rodents apart with tooth and nail.” I whistled. “That’s fucked up to the third degree.” Nova nodded. “Off the charts, man. Off the goddamned charts.” “Would you like me to make you a meal?” The Gossip Gal thought it was a good time. “Can it, Cindy!” Nova shook her head. “I swear, I am this close to deleting her A.I.” Poor Cindy. “Anyways,” she continued. “One good thing that followed Francis out those sewers...” “Luxuriant rat pelts?” “Haha.” She mocked. “No.” All serious. “After he climbed out of those shit

rivers below, and every day after since, Fran-cis raced like a fucking riot. A speed savant. A motor manic on steroids.” “A rat in a wheel.” “Exactly,” she agreed. “Hell, he outraced me tonight, and I’m the very best. He had my number until...” “Until your ride popped out a pair of extradimensional angel feathers.” I finished for her. “Yeah... I noticed that. Just what in the hell were those things?” “I was saving them for tomorrow.” “Tomorrow?” “The big race.” “What race?” “They would have come in handy.” “What would?” “The wings.” “Yeah... what are those?” If I wasn’t confused before I certainly was now. Confused to shit. “I’ll tell you later.” Nova definitely had something on her mind. That she was distracted was clear. Another race? Bloody hell... wasn’t the rat race enough? This girl was mad. And I was mad for her. “But first,” she added, “why are you here?” “Um...” Actually, good fucking question! “You invited me here if you recall.” “Yeah, but... why are you here? Tonight? Right now? Why were you eyeing me up in Paladin Square? Hiding behind that potted plant. Salivating over my Pisco Sour.” It wasn’t the cocktail I was salivating over.

“Why did you show me your gun and like... try and save the day or whatever. I mean, you seem like a decent dude. But you come off a bit creepy.” She got up and walked to the kitchen counter. Ignored the plum wine. Poured a whiskey. “I only invited you here because I was a bit rattled after I wiped Francis all over the pavement. That, and I was impressed that you had kept up. Thought I saw the last of you when I peeled out of that alley. Wouldn’t have dreamed you’d ride up, tailing in a hot ride.” A wave of pride washed over me. “I didn’t expect to kill him,” she went on. “Francis, poor bastard. Wouldn’t have had to, if he wasn’t trying to do exactly that to me. Or if he came in second like he usually does.” She downed her beverage. Poured another. “Do you want this plum wine you ordered?” I shook my head. “But I’ll have one of those.” I looked to the whiskey. She handed me her own glass, got herself a new one. Second time tonight we shared a drink from the same glass. I held the receptacle dear. “So, I don’t know man,” she continued. “Just shed some light on this shit. What’s your story? Why are you here? You know, besides me inviting you here. Give me a little some-thing.” Oh, how I’d love to give you something, alright. “Not much to it,” I told her straight up. “Nothing really of a story at all.” And I doled out the deets, boring as they were. How I was on my way to work. Killing a bit of time before the night shift. People-watching in the best place for it, Paladin Square, where this whole thing started. “Okay,” Nova sat back down. “So you were on your way to work. What do you do? And shouldn’t you be there now?” I should have. Indeed. And I did harbour a bit of guilt on that score. Not for skipping out on a job. Not the principle of it. But because of the nature of my job and those who depend on my service. I worked in a lab. Some pharmaceutical conglomerate corporate fuck-face of a lab. But I wasn’t a scientist or any-thing. I wasn’t really part of the company at all. Not really. I took care of the lab animals, poor things. The test subjects.

Victims of experimentation. Pawns in a game of trial and error. “How do you associate yourself with such shameful acts?” Nova was aghast. “How can you live with yourself?” I got this a lot. A common misconception. “I clean their cages,” I explained. “I feed them. Give them fresh water. Tend to their ailments. And give them, too, what precious kindness and affection they wouldn’t otherwise ever get.” I continued to explain that I had no desire to associate myself with the pharmaceutical baddies. Neither did I in any way endorse their fucked up practices, their lack of com-ion. Frankly put, their icy souls bereft of moral com made me sick. I was aware, however, that the animals in their possession would be there, used and abused, regardless of my thoughts or wishes for disassociation. And, moreover, those animals needed care, despite their ties to an immoral company. Despite a fate inflicted by dire circumstance. They needed the love wherever they could get it. To break up the horror that was their daily existence. They needed that care. They needed me. I realized I was gushing. Spilling the beans and my heart out with them. Whatever I said got Nova looking at me with a glint in her baby blues. The ghost of a kind smile. “Alright,” she said. “No need to defend yourself. I see you’re not a bad guy. But those rats in cages or whatever... don’t they need that kindness now?” It was true. They did. I nodded. And what Nova said next made the mold that was my infatuation set and harden to genuine love. “So should we go? Get those critters fed and cleaned and cuddled so they have something to live for. I could get us there fast. You know how I drive.” I think I had been looking at her like some kid in awe of his hero. I could feel it on my face. I was beaming, man. Beaming hard. It must have been an amusing spectacle be-cause Nova flat out giggled. For a heartbeat I knew her to be a girl for certain, then she turned her head in such a way and I was dead sure he was a guy. I found I liked her best when I was left in the dark this way. Always secondguessing.

“It’s too late for that,” I said. “At this hour my clearance wouldn’t check security.” I yawned. “Speaking of late. It’s about time for some shuteye, I reckon. You’ll want your rest. You did mention some big race.” “Yeah. The All-Earth Tournament. Big as they get. At least on this planet.” Nova opened up a fortune cookie. Tossed me my own. “Troubadour’s hosting the fourth quadrant. That’s us. Win that, and you get your shot to complete offworld. Get the fuck out of Troub. Live free among the stars.” “You’re not worried the stars could be as shit as here?” “I suppose they could be. But only one way to find out.” “Win that race.” “Yup.” We both nodded. Sipped our whiskey. “You know, I think you forgot a crucial part of your story,” Nova squinted at me, side glance and expectant. “Did I?” “You did,” she insisted. “Basic of basics.” I waited. “Your name, idiot!” I slapped my forehead. “My name. Of course. It’s been such a weird night I guess I forgot the very smallest of courtesies.” I cleared my throat. “Ion. Ion Mars. Though everyone calls me Zap.” “Zap?” She made a face. “Why?” “I don’t know. Ion… like charged particles, I guess. Charged… Zap.” I blushed. “It’s stupid.” “No,” she smiled. “It’s cute. Zap. I like it.”

I wasn’t convinced. I yawned again. And this time Nova yawned too. “So, as I said, you’ll want your wits about you for the race. Be sharp for tomorrow.” I eyed her whiskey, second glass and already drained. “Come on,” I suggested. “Let’s hit the hay.” She became wistful. Distant. “On the night before… I can’t sleep. I toss. I turn. And I dream of Neon Dreams.” “Neon Dreams?” Now what? “My ride.” “That’s no common car. The speed, the lights… those wings…” “I’ll tell you later.” That old line… “Well, what can you tell me?” Nova crunched into her fortune cookie and chewed loudly. She read the fortune inside, then crumpled it up. Dropped it on the floor. She grabbed another cookie and threw it over to me. “Do you your dreams?” She asked me. “Huh?” “Your dreams... do you recall them when you wake?” “What’s that got to do with anything? Sure. I mean, not always. Sometimes. Maybe half. They’re fucked up more often than not, I can tell you that. Why?” She looked at me and considered in silence for a while. “I’ll tell you later,” she finally said. I let out a sigh. How many times am I going to hear that one? “Even if I can’t sleep, I suppose I should try.” She let herself fall back onto the mattress, bunched up the pile of clothes, and pushed them into a corner. A

makeshift pillow. “You can take the couch.” “Cheers.” Lord knows I needed to rest my head. It was spinning in a flurry of activity. I munched down my fortune cookie, finished my whiskey, and collapsed. We turned out the lights. “Nova?” “Yeah, Zap?” “One last question?” “Shoot.” “Are you a man?” I was pretty sure it would piss her off. But my head was going places that wouldn’t allow me to doze. I just had to ask. “I get that a lot. That, and the other… ‘are you a woman?’” “Well… are you?” “Yes.” “Wait... which one? Man or woman?” S/he laughed out loud. “Isn’t it obvious?” “No.” “It is to me.” … “Would you like me to make you a meal?” “Shut up, Cindy!” We said it together.

* * *

Later that night I crawled around in the dark and found Nova’s crumpled fortune. I walked to the bathroom for a light and unwrapped it. Follow your dreams. It read. I smiled, took a piss, and recalled my own. Follow your heart. I made my way back to the couch and slept like a baby the remainder of the night. I ed my dream come morn-ing. I dreamt of my heart’s desire.

THE BIG RACE

I was sitting shottie in Neon Dreams. Nova was rocking the road. Doing her thing behind the wheel. Her hand was busy on the gear stick, close to mine. The console was aglow, all lemon-lime, and blared sweet melodies. Billy Ocean’s “Get Outta My Dreams, Get into My Car.” Over-the-top and happy-go-lucky, a max-volume barrage of long-outdated style and shameless blasts of antiquated synth. It filled the interior, and the city streets without. That song had enough cheese to satiate the likes of Francis McCurdy—may his soul rest in peace. The tune was altogether way too cheery for the dull, dead, daytime drear of that Vamp neighbourhood. But windows down, wind in my hair, my girl, numero uno... it fit my mood just right. Touch my bumper, baby. We cruised through parts of the city I’d never seen. Me, who has known no other place but the Troub. Who has breathed every breath in the shadow of whatever city struc-ture, corporate or slum, great or small. Me, who could name a thousand city streets and direct you to each and every one. But that’s the nature of this town. A wild urban jungle. A messy tangle of metropolitan labyrinth. A spilled spaghetti-noodle slop of a city. Complex and hectic. Riotous and untamed. Even when we were where I didn’t know we were, exactly, I knew where we were, more or less. Poet’s Pride was ever stiff with Viagra. Tirelessly erect. It out-peaked its neighbours by no small margin and served the savviest of city dwellers just as well as the virgin tourist with an ever-present reference point. It took some time before that epic monolith humbled in the distance. I don’t think I’d ever seen it half so small. It was then that I knew we had gone rather far. We were on our way to the All Earth racing tournament, quadrant four. To Troubadour’s largest raceway, the Silver Halo. “Are we there yet?” I asked as I turned down the volume of the console. Its

luminosity dimmed in relation to the output of sound. A neat little feature. “About halfway there.” It was our first exchange since before Billy Ocean. Dozens of other songs had played, less memorable. “Fuck me!” I shouted. “Why bother winning a race. May as well drive all the way to the stars.” Nova drove on, silent. Occupied by the wheel. Sunglasses hid her mood. “Well shit, man!” I wasn’t used to sitting still this long. I confess I acted rather like a child. “I’m bored. Tell me some-thing. Talk to me. Tell me about those strange wings.” “Later.” I squirmed in my seat. I moaned. “Well tell me about you. Your favourite foods. Favourite colours.” She turned and looked at me. Then back to the road. Okay... I was definitely acting like a child. Besides, the latter was obvious. Yellow. “Alright, then how about your ride. Tell me something about Neon Dreams. Not the wings... ‘later,’ I know. But tell me something about her. The lights! Tell me about those pretty lights.” At first, I thought I was being ignored. I gave up. I sat in silence. But after a minute or two Nova started to speak. She told me about Neon Dreams. Told me she was one of a kind (I figured that one out on my own). Gave me the skinny. Your basic lowdown. And the 101 on some of her off-world perks. Told me she was decked out in astro-goods. Galactic glamour. Megaplastic. Megaplastic... like McCurdy’s cheese wheels. The Rat King’s prized cheddar. Stale as rock. Hard as diamond. A real fucking tough piece of work. Megaplastic was the hardest substance available to man. Synthetically forged in the tenth-level furnaces by the black-smith roborgs of Volkanica. Made in and shipped from an entirely different star system. The price per gram made most drugs look cheap, jewels affordable. Megaplastic? Mega bucks, babe.

Nova told me some interesting shit I had no fucking clue about. Made the miles go by. The minutes . I was getting an injection of education. Something of a foreign sensation. An odd absorption of facts. Knowledge atypical and far removed from the usual street-smarts know-how a back-alley orphan of Troubadour was used to. I gobbled it up. My mind a sponge. Nova delved into informative narration. Scratched somewhat deeper than the surface regarding some of the finer details of M.P. Explained to me the nuances of its unique properties, lay out the forks and knives and set the periodic table, dished out stories of its history and origin. I was gripped and enriched. I had forgotten we were talking about a car. I learned that translucence of megaplastic was considered unachievable for half a century after its invention. Totally impossible. Couldn’t be done. But accidental efforts revealed that small percentages of Star Glass introduced to the recipe greatly minimized its otherwise opaque natural state. The formula has been honed and re-honed since. Perfected and finalized over a handful of decades. Today, translucence of megaplastic is totally achievable. Achievable, and expensive as shit. Only thing more expensive, pound for pound, are the sex slaves bred on Stevia 6. So I found it hard to believe when Nova told me her very own Neon Dreams had narrow strips and small segments of translucent Mega Plastic worked into and amongst the lesser metals of her ride. Where did she get the cash?! From racing? Surely not. Submerged within the synthoAlloy’s impossibly endurable crystalline structure were tubes of neon light—canary yellow, lime green, electric blue, “fuck me” pink. The lights were connected to the engine to correspond to the rotation of the crankshaft. As RPMs multiplied the colours came alive. The quicker Neon Dreams’ heart fluttered the more brilliant she blushed. Speed and fireworks and fast-as-hell luminescent glory all at once. One-of-akind indeed. But even these features, astoundingly so, paled next to what would prove the most unique part of Nova’s ride. That magnificent, luminescent, translucent, roborg-forged mega-shit... it had nothing on the true crowning jewel of that absurd set of wheels. Not by a long shot.

Neon Dreams still had a secret. Of course, I wouldn’t know about that for a little while yet... Nova seemed to have said all that she wished to say. Either that or the fast approach of the Silver Halo demanded her focus and attention. She killed the console, and we cruised the final miles in quiet. Over my shoulder Poet’s Pride was a pinprick on the horizon. This was the furthest outside the heart of Troub I’d ever been. I teetered between elation and agoraphobia. As we pulled into the queue to the entrance of the Silver Halo Nova fiddled nervously with her hair. It parted, just behind her ear, and revealed a glint of metallic shimmer. I turned to look and saw what appeared to be a circular cavity, something that looked almost like a jack for electronics. She noticed my curious stare and quickly ruffled her hair back over whatever the hell she had going into her head. It could’ve been as simple as an internal radio device. The cheap kind you can get in any electronic street stall or body alteration hub. Your most basic of modifications. But it didn’t look cheap. Didn’t look basic. More likely it was a port for one of those flash gaming systems. Some virtual reality input that linked its ’s senses to an artificial good time. Still... it could have been more. Something much more. This girl was full of surprises and I certainly wouldn’t put it past her. “You’re not a cyborg, are you?” I suddenly thought out loud. “Why?” Nova sneered. “Are you as afraid of Borgs as you are Vamps?” “I’m not afraid of Vamps!” I wasn’t. Honest. Not really. Well... maybe a bit. But not much. Just that healthy amount of fear reserved for something that if it had its way would dine on my flesh. Eat me alive. Drain me dry. “I just don’t keep many in my company.” We idled in the queue, stationary. Nova was all sullen silence. Neon Dreams purred soft and low. The fun and frivolity of Billy Ocean’s playful womanizing long forgotten. There was somewhat of a conversational void. I decided to fill it. “I’ve got no problems with Cyborgs either.” “I am not a fucking cyborg.”

“Okay, okay...” I was really curious about that jack going into her skull but left it for a better time. I motioned to the huge and ugly construct before us. Asked the obvious. “So that’s the Silver Halo?” “Biggest track in Troub.” The change of subject toned down most of the hostility in Nova. “Biggest in Quadrant Four.” “Huh.” I couldn’t care less. “How about that.” We waited out the rest of the slow-moving queue in silence. Eventually, what seemed a long damned time, we were waved through. No questions. No worries. Nova, or Neon Dreams, or both, were well enough known to avoid scrutiny entirely. All that ive-aggressive silence got me in a complaining mood. “They should really organize a separate queue for the racers. Fuck’s sake... waste half a goddamned day sitting on your ass. And then it’s like, ‘sure, go on through.’ Never mind any questions. Any I.D. No second glance. Bloody annoying, that wait. Could have done something constructive. Imagine if you were holding in a shit.” My complaining got me nothing. Just more of that ive-aggressive silence that was feeding my bad mood. Nova, mute and morose, deadpan and half-hidden behind her shades. I sighed and watched as one of the most hideous buildings I’ve ever seen grew larger upon our approach. The Silver Halo. Pfft. Could anything be more misleading? It was a hulking heap of shit. A total visual offence. Silver Halo, my ass. And speaking of asses, I’d be more inclined to call the biggest track in Quadrant Four the Titan’s Toilet. We waited in line for this? It was a monstrous, pock-marked, concrete rim. It sat, massive, amidst a sprawling car park. A field of asphalt. It was like a rotting slab of dead meat, gray and colourless. The discarded cut to feed the dogs. Acne-scarred flesh tossed and forgotten. Large enough to be impressive, perhaps, but with-out a shred of aesthetic. Bereft of charm. Whatever archi-tectural merits or genius, if any, were incorporated into the design, it was lost to the layman. Cloaked and

hidden, entirely, by ugliness. Neon Dreams ed under a massive archway that delivered us into the guts of that hideous concrete colossus. Inside was bustling with activity. People swarmed in the stands above and around us, at the concessions and betting booths to our left and right. Pre-race entertainment, in all of its many forms, was active and lively in every direction. Gambling tables hosted rowdy packs of onlookers as big stakes were lost and gained. Topless girls from Stevia 6 made men drool with their seductive dances. They were pointlessly on auction at insurmountable summits of affordability. Martian Flame Feeders swallowed fire, burped, and farted plumes of black smoke. Music played from various stages, blending into a cacophonous mess of overstimulation. Bad food and weak drinks were sold at five times the regular price. Everyone was happy to pay. Snacks and sticky shit littered the floor. Ahhh... your typical sporting event. I must it, while the whole affair was far from my cup of tea—with the exception, perhaps, of those girls from Stevia 6—the Silver Halo made an impressive venue. It was far less crude and displeasing from within. The entranceway that funneled the throng through ticket collection and hosted the sideshow entertainment was covered and domed. Dark by default but lit up by artificial lights of stimulating colour and displays, cozy and confined, it contrasted pleasingly with the open-aired, natural light and epic scale of the seating areas and track itself. The Silver Halo’s interior aesthetic compensated somewhat for its complete lack from without. But what really made up for any lack of eye candy on the way in—again, I make exception to the seductress slaves of Stevia 6—was the collection of cars, all razzle-dazzle and flash, all pimped out and bling and gorgeous, that lay strewn across the starting line and prep area. Neon Dreams was as impressive as the next and more impressive than most, but the sheer variety of motor mag-nificence, of engine elegance, was a sight for even the most casual of car enthusiasts. Every colour and shade, design and decal, every elegant curve, quirk and feature, every element of cool, all on display in that collection of automotive badass. Some, like Neon, were eccentric as hell. Peacocks among hawks. Birds of paradise with bright feathers and plumage. All on display for display’s sake.

Others were less gaudy, more sophisticated. The blacks and grays and whites. The monotone paint-jobs. The handsome devils. These wore the dress too, but it was more about the designer and the material, less about the glitter, sequins, and cleavage. Some of the vehicles had a hint of modesty to them. Some even masqueraded as the standard mold. Sleeper cars. Run of the mill on the outside, racer-god guts on the inside. Mad mechanics under the hood. Like a nun with a shaved fanny hidden under her skirts. Whichever variation of style or display, all but the sleepers had that look that said “watch out motherfuckers. I can move.” The sleepers themselves weren’t exactly incognito, however. They were known to be deceptive in their appearances and thus received due attention just like the rest. I wasn’t into cars especially. Not really. I mean, Lambo was fucking cool, and Neon Dreams was totally off the charts. Wicked as they come. But cars weren’t really my thing. Not beyond your general appreciation for a choice set of wheels. Still, I have to say, under the open sky of the Silver Halo, this gathering of hotrod heroes had me salivating. It was something else. Neon Dreams slowed to a halt and Nova killed the ignition. We were parked between a pair of slick rides. Flash as they came. We totally fit in. “Never thought I’d live to see it, but Neon is in like com-pany. She blends with the crowd.” Nova took her hands off the wheel, her shades off her face. She turned and looked me straight in the eye. Her geisha guise was yesterday’s flavour. Today, she rocked the Egyptian. Those baby blues lined in kohl, dark and aslant and elongated. “Zap,” she said. Total seriousness. “There are a lot of cars here today. A lot of fast cars.” She leaned in and closed the gap between us. Real close. “But make no mistake,” I could feel the breath of her words on my face. “No car here… not a single one… is fast enough to tango with Neon Dreams. She’s in a class of her own. She’s the Queen.” Our faces were an inch apart. I held my breath. Lost in Nova’s eyes. Aroused. Hard. I backed up. Swallowed. “Sure, Nova. Sure.” I think I broke out in a sweat. I was certain to be as red as a beet. That girl—girl?—…she got my blood real hot. My mood astir. My urges amped. “You’ll see,” she promised, sitting back into her seat. “When the race is go, keep

your eye on the neon flairs. The flashes of light. They’ll be coming from me.” She gave a sly smile. “They’ll be coming from the front.” I stared at Nova, somewhat perplexed. Her arrogance, no small thing. That calm confidence, worn like a badge of honour. Such conceit… such hubris… it’s the sort of thing that would normally piss me off. And maybe it did. A little… Yet I found myself iring her shameless self-elevation. Something about it held weight. Had authenticity. Without really being able to explain it, it felt like Nova was holding back. She was like someone in poker who had an unbeatable hand but pretended to pretend that they had it, so to seem that they did not, despite their assurances they did. A double bluff. I don’t know… this wasn’t a game of cards. But that’s how I was feeling. Looking at her then gave me the shivers. I turned to look away and focused on the swarm of cars. “We have about an hour,” Nova told me. “I’m going to look over ‘the Dream.’ Feel free to wander a bit. Check out the competition.” So I did. I walked up and down the line. Strolled through Auto Avenue. Took in some real mint wheels. Nova’s competition. Some were more memorable than the next. Others, unforgettable. In many cases I found the drivers to be just as fascinating as their rides. Some real odd and interesting folk in the mix. People watching... my favourite. There was P.J. Hamilton, A.K.A. “Rat Face.” McCurdy’s second in command. The new Rat King. He was strung out on last night’s dosage. This was the bloke that let that girl fall into the fountain. So he survived... He recognized me straight away. Called me over. Told me “no hard feelings.” “What’s done is done.” Offered me an Alpha Wolf, a high-end funsie that has you howling at the moon in your good time—never mind if the moon is visible or out at all. I respectfully declined. “That was some Rat Race last night,” P.J. commented. Jovial. “Yeah.” What else could I say? Quite frankly I thought the exchange a bit bizarre. Wasn’t this guy my enemy? “Shame about the boss,” he shrugged. “The Rat is dead. Long live the Rat.”

I nodded. Weirded the fuck out. “Well, P.J...” I looked for an out. “Call me Rat Face, brother.” “Right… well, Rat Face, I best be on my way.” I picked a random direction and walked pretty damned fast. “Off to service the missus?” He cackled, very rat-like. “Err... or is it mister? Hard to tell with the Queen.” “I’m not bothered either way,” I told him honestly. “I’d service her or him or it any way he or she or it pleased. Just not sure I’m invited yet.” This sent Rat Face in a real giggle fit. “You’re a funny fel-low, new guy. I like you.” McCurdy told me the very same. I guess I just had that certain allure that speaks to rats. Lucky me… “Thanks, P.J.” “Rat Face.” “Thanks, Rat Face.” “Well, you run along then, new guy.” Gladly. Freak. “And do tell your boy-girl bitch that Rat Face is going to run her neon pussy or cock or whatever she has off the road.” He popped the Alpha Wolf that he had offered to me. I looked him up and down. I drank in his wheels. His ride was the watered-down version of McCurdy’s Rat Mobile. Similar look, but two or three shades shabbier. Fewer specs. No Cheese Wheels. It was like a shitty sequel to a beloved film. The Jar Jar Binks of Star Wars. I let that rat-fuck know I was measuring him down. Judging him hard. “P.J.,” I said, shaking my head, rolling my eyes. “You’re way out of your league, mate.” Whatever insults Rat Face shouted to my back as I walked away were lost to me. Curses and death threats unde-cipherable as human speech morphed into canine howls. Be-hold, a rat barking like a dog. I left Hamilton to the manic pleasures of his Alpha Wolf.

Sometime later I stopped in my tracks to take in a real upper-class piece of wheel. A dynamite ride. Top-fucking-notch. Jet black from bumper to bumper, so dark it seemed to drink in the light. Yet subtle moves of one’s head, minuscule changes of angle, and the darkest of inkblack pigments sparkled radiance of midnight blue and seaweed green. More startling still was the bright contrasting splash and spatter of the most vivid of crimson. Right over and across the hood, an epic bloodbath of red, vermilion driblets extending as far as the rims of the back wheel. It looked as if the handsome vehicle had hit a deer going 100 plus, its structure miraculously undamaged, and its victim’s gore the finest of sparkling paint-jobs. An odd image, but unique. As beautiful as it was macabre. “She’s a beauty, is she not?” I turned from that gorgeous set of wheels to address the speaker of that rich, deep voice. I beheld a man as stunning as his car. “Drayke Silverstem,” he smiled pleasantly and revealed a set of predator fangs. Vampyre. “Pleased to meet you.” I actually knew this guy. Or knew of him. I’d seen him before on the tele. Drayke Silverstem. I’d heard that name. Vamp heartthrob. An actor on some daytime drivel. Romance and heartbreak five times a week. Pure shit. Addictive. Soap scum. “Yeah. Nice to meet you too.” And it was... nice. Nice to meet the Drayke. He had that vampyre charm. Made me love him despite my natural fear. He was pale as milk. Anaemic. But in a pretty-as-porcelain sort of way, not sickly or gross. Neither the faintest trace of blemish nor the smallest of imperfections could be found on that parchment perfect epidermis. Long and luxuriant hair tumbled down in a gentle cascade. Coal-black curls, rivulets of ink, trickled beyond a pair of robust, wide shoulders. His eyes were simultaneous temptation and threat. A kind invite to your grave. Icy blue, gorgeous and cruel, and vivid enough to appear alight. Like Eve’s apple, delicious and sweet, the ripest of fruit…. no little consequence. His odd assortment of features came together not displeasing but altogether immaculate. Drayke was strikingly handsome. He burst with charm. Under his

gaze, I felt be-witched and fuzzy, warm, and giddy. I turned my chin to offer up my neck. His eruption of laughter woke me like a splash of cold water. I had been locked in a euphoric daze. I blinked away the sleepy charm that hung about me and blushed a crimson like the hood of Drayke’s car. “Forgive me, my friend.” He laughed again. “I may have been projecting a bit on the strong side.” By “projecting” he meant a broadcast of his unique Vampyre vibes. An outward extension of his personal aura. Like casting a net of one’s energetic field, aimed to entangle and confuse. By projecting one’s self, vampyres were able to charm and seduce, hypnotize and bewitch, render to submis-sion their prey. I had just got a dose of that Vamp voodoo magic. I’m embarrassed to say that it left me hard. It was sweet seduction. Better than sex. “That was unchivalrous,” Drayke continued. “Come, let me make it up to you. Let me show you my car.” I couldn’t help but hear the words of Billy Ocean. “Hey, you! Yes, you! Get into my car!” And out of my dreams... this vamp bastard hijacked my infatuation for the hard-edged Neon Queen. I didn’t mind... except it felt like mind rape. I didn’t really have control over myself. “Yeah,” I heard myself agree. “Show me.” He told me some shit about his ride. Car jargon. Words like torque and horsepower and X amount of this, Y amount of that. Something about cylinders and other mechanical speak. Over my head, the lot of it. Could have saved us both some time had he just summed it up: ‘my car is the shit.’ But I didn’t really mind. Drayke had his arm around my shoulder and was treating me real good. I felt drunk. I felt horny. “Her name is Thirst,” he told me. “Let me show you why.” For a moment I thought he had meant to bite me. Give me the eternal kiss. My faculties were such that I did not mind. Again, I bared my neck for his sweet

lips. His love bite antics. “Devour me, baby,” I begged. “Not yet, my love,” he brushed back my hair to kiss my forehead. “Come, look at this.” He popped the bonnet of his ride and beckoned me to take a peep. One look under the hood and it became evident that Thirst wasn’t named for its want of glory. Its thirst was for human blood. Inside was what looked like open-heart surgery. A mass of bulging bare muscles, skin peeled back, veins throbbing and pulsing. Blood oozing and squelching. It was like a meat box of living, squirming flesh. The devil’s lunchbox. A horror show under the hood. I couldn’t make sense of how it worked. How it ran a fucking car. Of course, a look under the hood to any conven-tional car and I’d scratch my head all the same. I felt sick. I felt faint. And still that bastard’s charm held firm my will. He showed me his “co-pilot.” Some hapless idiot. Some hopeless devout. A religious goth. A worshiper of the Vamp. Intravenous tubes fed a steady stream of fresh blood from the co-pilot’s arms and neck and legs to that demonic flesh engine. Drayke explained that the harder he pushed his ride the larger its thirst, hence, its macabre namesake. He lovingly stroked my hair and kissed me tenderly on the ear. He nibbled gently at my lobe. Stuck his tongue down the hole. Surprisingly, it was cold. It made me shiver. And I loved it. “This one’s nearly dry, my sweet. Perhaps you’d like to be my new co-pilot?” There was tremendous panic and a very desperate fear raging from within my core. Yet it was suppressed and lulled and held in check. A sweet, strange, alien seduction held my inhibitions firm. I fought against its straightjacket vice. Much to my horror, I begin to answer “Yes.” Then I was saved. “Leave him be, you third-rate thespian fuck. You soap opera cunt. You lily-white leech piece of shit. Vamp trash. Suck your daddy’s dick, but leave that boy’s blood alone.” The spell was broken. I was released from the charm. I gasped and stumbled

backwards, hurriedly away from the Vamp. Away from my captor. I looked to my saviour. All but five feet tall. He was tiny. But his mouth made up for it. “Go choke on some blood dump-lings, lamprey bastard.” He said brazenly to Drayke, then mo-tioned to me. “Come on kid. Leave that shit-stain amateur actor to practice his lines for the next episode of ‘who gives a fuck.’” I followed the little man’s advice. Made some distance. A minute later I looked over my shoulder and shared a glance with Drayke. He merely shrugged. No apology. No protest. He turned away and let me go. “Had you in his grip,” Shortie told me. “Good and under his spell. You shouldn’t dabble with those Vamps, lad.” “Yeah... I think I get that.” Like I was given a bloody choice! The little guy then offered me his hand. “Name’s Blah Blah Blah.” He didn’t actually say that. I just can’t his name. Blah-Blah introduced me to his little brother, So-and-So. The big brother was little, the little brother was big. I that. “Let me show you our car,” they said. Why is it everyone is so fucking eager to show me their car? It was another weird one. It ran on trash. Rubbish. Refuse. Shit. “We call her the Garbage Shoot,” the bigger man said. “Because she shoots down the track. Fast as they come. And she runs on garbage.” Were these guys for real? The Garbage Shoot? Dumbest fucking thing I’ve heard all day, and that’s after talking to Hamilton. “Runs on trash, does she?” Lord knows there’s plenty of that to be found in old Troub. “And a mixture of petrol,” Tiny clarified. The little man with the big mouth went on to brag about his “garbage guzz-ler.” Food scraps, unwanted mail, your ex’s old clothes and belongings, cat shit all flecked with absorbent litter, plastic wrappers, tin cans, old condoms, chewed gum... the list went on. The Garbage

Shoot ate it all. Yummed that sick shit up. Washed it down with petrol. The more revolting the cocktail, the more she moved. “She’s fast as shit,” the brothers swore. “Yeah,” I said. And smells like shit, too. “I believe it.” And I did. They may be goofy and a bit idiotic, but they were here for a reason. Ready to race with the rest of the best from Quadrant Four. I thanked Big and Small and wished them luck in the race. I emptied my pockets of lint and receipts in an offering to the help the Garbage Shoot obtain full potential. I moved on. On my way back down the line, I skirted that eerie bastard Silverstem and his fucked up, monstrous Thirst. I avoided, too, Rat Face and his empty threats. I escaped his attention but I could not so the sound of his howling. The Alpha Wolf in full swing. There was no one else, particularly, that I recall from that strange group of racers. No other individual, in any case, from that speeder sect. There was, however, a certain noble caste of underdog in that collection of competitors. They were known within the racing community as the Burnhearts. Named after some famous historic lady who could lay down some speed like no other of her time. Gail Burnheart Jr. Queen of the tracks. Mistress of the race. Goddess of the gears. Engine elite. Competitors of her time were lucky to feature in her rearview mirror. Gail, faster than the raging wind that was her name. She ruled the road around the turn of the 20th to 21st century. She was on every racer’s radar. On every cereal box. Today her legend was somewhat of a who-gives-a-fuck. Like the original Olympians. Forgotten heroes. Who cares about records broken when they have since been broken hundreds of times? I’ll tell you who. The Burnhearts. And in a big way. These guys were purists. No neon lights. No funsies to stimmie up the mood. No trash-burning fumes. Sure as

shit no blood-guzzling demonic engines. The Burnhearts prided themselves on good-old car mechanics. The ancient design. Racers and auto buffs through and through. They didn’t have hobbies outside of the sport. No side projects or ulterior ambitions. Narrow-minded and obsessed. Petrol Heads to the core. They always came in last. Just the way it is. Dedicated to the old way as they are. For them, it’s more about pride. More about tradition. Like proud samurai gunned down with nothing but a sword in hand. It was more about the spirit of racing. For the Burnhearts, it was religion. Couldn’t help but respect their kind. That underdog caste. They had class in a class of their own. Rigid in their fidelity to the ways of old. Loyal to a T. I tip my hat to the Burnhearts. Somewhere, six feet under, Gail Junior is doubtless smiling in her grave.

A loud horn sounded. Drowned out the commotion. Three blaring blasts. Time for the big race. I made my way back to Neon Dreams to see Nova off. To wish her luck. She pulled her driving gloves taught and looked at me with cool assurance. Sexy as hell. “No need for that, Zap. Luck ain’t my style.” She zipped up her front, the yellow leather hugging firm to her form. “Just skill. Pure and simple skill. And lots of it.” She winked at me with those Egyptian eyes. “You are one cock-sure bastard. You know that?” I winked back. Nova smiled, but let it die as quick as it came. “Zap,” she said, all serious. “Yeah?” “I know the road,” she told me. “I know the ways of the wheel. I know my car. I know my stripes and colours.” Her gaze turned to the horizon. “As far as I can

tell there are two people. One’s in the front. One’s in the back.” She looked back to me. Her smile returned. “I’ve already told you which one I am. And I told you where to look for me.” I couldn’t help but smile back. “The front.” “Damn right.” She turned the ignition. Neon Dreams roared her agree-ment. Time for the big race.

* * *

The All-Earth Tournament was held annually, hosting the top racers and fastest cars on the planet of its name. The largest racing event on Earth, and indeed, the entire solar system. It was big shit to people who dig cars. Christmas morning for people like Nova. The second-fucking-coming for people like the Burnhearts. Some die-hard in the stands next to me explained the whole thing. Divided into four separate quadrants, more or less determined by geographical location and population densities, the All-Earth tournament took place over the first four Saturdays of the month of June. Each quadrant hosted twenty-five racers or racing teams for each of their respective areas and competitors within. Each group competed in a race of twenty-five circuits or revolutions of the track within the individual arenas that hosted each quadrant’s event. Twenty-five cars, twenty-five circuits. Four Quadrants, four events, four arenas. Planet-wide that’s one hundred competitors, one hundred laps, and four first-place winners. The whole damn thing had me scratching my head. I told the guy as much. “Dude… how can I say it plainer?” I don’t know, I almost said, maybe take less bites of those twenty-dollar nachos between your sentences? Wash them down, in any case, with that twelve-dollar soda?

“Let me put it this way,” he thought real hard. “This tournament…” “Yeah…?” “It’s BIG fucking shit.” “I see,” I didn’t. “That clarifies it nicely,” it didn’t. “Tell me more.” His chequered-flag racing jersey was stained with nacho cheese. A big yellow smear. It reminded me of Neon Dreams making motion trails in the wake of her speed. This guy was rabid. A real fan. He went on and on, explaining the deets. ion bursting along with the whiteheads on his forehead. Corn-chip shrapnel flying left and right. He told me that the top ten finalists from each quadrant of the previous year were automatically invited to the next year’s event. The other fifteen had to reenroll and compete in preliminary events, earning an accumulation of points and placements before returning to the prestigious subsequent All-Earth tournament. I asked him about Nova. About Neon Dreams. “Lady Bright,” he said. “The Neon Queen. Nova and her Neon Dreams. She’s got mad skills, that one. She’s as hot as her car,” he licked his lips, “if you ask me.” “I don’t.” “Though there is a rumour she’s actually a man.” “Huh… you don’t say?” “Anyways… She came in fourth last year. And a tire-length from third. She was gaining… those final few laps. Had the race been thirty laps instead of the twenty-five… well… who knows. Like I said… she was gaining.” “Fourth, eh? So she had an automatic return to this year’s event?” “You got it! You’re catching on,” he was thrilled to be teaching his craft. To be potentially instrumental in converting a stranger to racer fandom. “Want a nacho?” He offered.

“No.” “Your loss.” He crunched down on a stale corn triangle and a glob of synthetic orange goo masquerading as “cheese” fell onto his knee. He shamelessly collected it with a new chip and munched it down. I shuddered. “So, what happens when you win the race?” I asked. Nova never mentioned anything about it. Only some offhand, vague utterance… a trip into space... a chance to leave the Troub behind her. She went all sullen as soon as we had finished breakfast. Didn’t get to learn much else. “How much cash does the winner take home?” “Cash?” The guy looked disgusted. “Yeah man,” I said, disgusted by his disgust. “The earnings. The fucking moolah. The whole point of this colossal shit-show.” “Bro…” Nachos finished, he held up his hands, affront. “It’s not about the earnings.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “It’s about the glory. Of course. Sure, sure.” I knew where this was going. “But, come on. How much do they take home? I mean, in addition to the glory.” I knew exactly where this was going. Except I didn’t. “No, bro,” he insisted. “It’s not like that.” “How do you mean?” “The winner doesn’t get prize money.” “The fuck?” Now I was affront. “So what? All the winner gets is the goddamned glory? Nothing to show for it but a badge that says ‘I got the biggest dick?’” “First of all,” he began, teeth full of sodden nachos. Beard yellowed by congealed cheese. “This is the All-Earth Tournament. Glory is enough.” “Not for me, it isn’t,” I huffed. “Can’t buy a lunch with glory.” “Second of all,” he ignored me. “If you come in first you are eligible for the offworld Space-Race. The Real Carrera. A chance to race the Astro Circuit!”

“Buddy,” I rubbed my temples. “You’re speaking a language I just don’t comprehend.” I was still thinking about that non-existent prize money. “So… the winner of this race gets to—what?—do another fucking race?” “Not just another race, amigo,” he stood up from his seat. All animated. “The winner of this race, in addition to the winners of the other three quadrants of the All-Earth Tour-nament, get to compete in the mother of all races. Get to represent Earth in the Galactic Crown. The Astro Circuit’s biggest race.” “Okay…” Getting out of Troubadour, and off the home-world rock, is every urchin’s dream. But still… it just seemed to me like a chance to drive your car around another track, in another venue. “And the winner of that race… tell me, please… the winner of that race takes home more than just the glory.” “They take home the glory all right. They earn the title of the Galaxy’s Best. They wear the Galactic Crown… until next year.” “The money, man,” I urged. “The fucking money!” “Where is your racer pride?” “Fresh all out.” He scoffed. Truly disgusted. “Yes,” he spat, nacho bits coming loose from his snarl. “The winner gets a shit load of money. More than they could earn in a lifetime on Earth. Three lifetimes.” He harrumphed in my face. “Satisfied?” More money than you can earn in three lifetimes? “You know something?” I smiled. “I am.” “Good,” he turned his attention to the track. “Now leave me alone. I’ve got a race to watch.”

* * *

And what a race it turned out to be!

Though things didn’t really get interesting until the nineteenth lap. That’s when some serious shit went down. I must have bit my nails right down to the quick. Edge of your seat, man. Edge of your fucking seat. It didn’t start out that way. Not to that extent, anyhow. It was still exciting, those beginning stages of the race. But things were a little more straightforward. More predictable. Something more of what I might have expected. And some-thing a great deal less than than the tremendous head-fuck I witnessed towards the end. The climax to that crazy race… it featured some seriously strong flavours of chaos. Hefty whiffs of apocalyptic doom. But we’ll get there. I was sitting, a bit chilly and holding in my piss. Waiting for the event, expectant. That super-fan sat all quiet and sulky, resentful of my greater love for money than for racing. I searched for something to do. I fancied a smoke, and I’m not even a smoker. Honestly, I was getting bored. Then the green light went “GO.” Some gun shot a blank that shouted “move motherfuckers! Move!” And they did. Those flashy-ass cars. Moved like a pack of steroid-pumped hounds fresh on the scent. Like the snap of a whip. Like cheetahs on heat. Collec-tively, and all at once, a giant flash of petrol-amped chain lightning. The race was on. Neon Dreams shot like a bullet, alight and aflame with electric brilliance. The blazing projectile of some racer-god’s roman candle. VROOOM, baby. VROOM. And it wasn’t just Nova. The whole lot of those speedster fanatics… they kept pace with the Queen, or nearly just. The simultaneous burst of velocity from twenty-five jacked-up engines proved a sonic boom of deafening dimension. The Silver Halo reverberated a thunderous upheaval of noise. Thor’s hammer came down upon my eardrum and my hands shot up to cover my ears. That piss I was holding in dribbled a little. My scream of pain was lost in the general uproar as I searched for an empathizing neighbour, but no one looked my way. They had eyes only for the track, absorbed entirely by the motor show. I seemed to be the lone victim in any case. Everyone else had been wearing earplugs. Pros, in their own light. Seasoned spectators. The first ten laps seemed almost orderly. Scripted even. Everyone was playing their part. The top seeds were in front. The bottom seeds in the back. The Burnhearts gave their valiant effort, fuelled by pride as much by petrol. By the fifth lap, they lagged well behind. Things were playing out as one would expect.

All was in order. Harmonious. Quaint. But as the number of remaining laps became fewer—and any chances to pull ahead along with them—those in the back became emboldened, reckless, desperate. Pulled some crazy stunts. Tried to one-up their betters. Some succeeded to advance their position. Most did not. The first of the wipe-outs came during the eleventh lap. A green and gold arrow shot from the back end with desperate speed. A gaudy vehicle. Ugly and overthe-top. In half a lap its position improved from nineteen to twelve. It raised some ooos and ahhhs from the crowd. “Who’s the Green one?” I nudged the die-hard for some Intel. “The one that’s shooting up the ranks.” He no longer seemed angry with me. Placated by the race. He didn’t turn his eyes from the action, but his tone was cheery. Excited. “That’s Leap Frog,” he told me. “And living up to his name! Tom Boden. Kid from New Portland. They say he’s the next big thing. Up and coming. Some real promise to make a splash.” And he sure did. Make a splash. The Leap Frog made a move to the inside, trying to leap yet again, from twelfth to eleventh. It was his final move, turns out. His opponent, all silver and chrome and elegance, speeding along on redtinted rims and white wheels, the Manchurian Crane. Saw where things were going and had something to say about it. Made a real statement. Flicked her back end just so at the right time, a bump well-placed and precise. Sent that green and gold upstart spinning and swerving. Took an edge going 200-plus. Flipped and flew. Came down with a bang. Big bang. Fireworks and all. Smoldering and up in smoke. The young kid with promise came to an end. Dead or dying. Boden should have known…. cranes eat frogs. More of that followed. Spin-outs, crashes, collisions. Des-perate and daring moves that ended in a shift of position, debilitation, or death. Fatalities and injury were part of the game. When their cars spun, the drivers spun the dice. Life’s end, financial ruin, or a simple “try again next time.” The variations of bad had an array. Surviving a crash sent some into a fevered ambition to do better. For others, it was a sign to move on to other ventures in life. The life that the dice had spared them… this time.

By the fifteenth lap, only eighteen cars remained in the race. An assortment of crashed or stalled vehicles, smoking in ruins or unscathed but immobile, collected within the inner circle of the racetrack. The Silver Halo was angled inward at thirty degrees, and at a crazy forty-five at the narrow ends of its 2.5mile track. Only the starting and finishing line was level with the ground. This feature wasn’t just for odd aesthetic or whim. It was intentional, an effect of twopart design. One, to funnel inward crashed or spun-out vehicles. Keeping clear any obstructions to the thoroughfare and progress of the race. The show must go on. And two, to enhance and increase aggressive play between competitors. To add strategy, risk, and reward. To appease the crowd with drama and action. To put on a damned good show. Taking the inward track was faster, of course. It narrowed the distance of the Halo’s elliptical circuit. It provided a lane for those that lagged to and improve their standing. And so too, with its allure of speed and means to advance, the inward track was rife with risk. It left you vulnerable. Open to attack from an opponent holding the higher ground. Made you a prime target. And so the choice became dependent on the racer’s will to apply strategy, measuring out the pros and cons, the risk and reward, to the various options open to them. Those options, in effect, made the race more interesting. More dynamic. More unpredictable. And ultimately, more entertaining to observe. Particularly so, I found, from the safety of the stands. Still, my Baby Bright was on the track. My sweet girl. And my own safety didn’t take away my worry for hers. My nerves were frayed. Sizzled. Like live-wires shorting on a puddle of piss. But I breathed somewhat easier as things currently stood. Neon Dreams was clear in first. She took off from the start, securing the number two spot for a handful of laps before suring her opponent to take the lead. And there she remained. First place by a mile. And her words of assurance echoed in my ears. Her confident promise. “When the race is go, keep your eye on the neon flairs. They’ll be coming from me. They’ll be coming from the front.” And so they were. For the time being. All was well. Until the nineteenth lap.

And then shit got interesting. Not, may I add, in a good way. Nova’s hold on the lead became somewhat less tenacious. Somewhat more dubious. Other racers felt the time running low, the chances running thin. Chomping at the bit for a better final placement. This was the time to make their move. The Manchurian Crane, that silver bullet. She shot like a rock from a sling, making slick moves up the track. She moved in and out of advance, attack and defend. Sured a group of cars tangled up and engaged in combat. Neither confronted nor abused, she slipped past them in their distraction. Then, in an act of over-the-top artistry to insult, her driver popped the trunk to send one thousand beautifully folded paper cranes into the air. The intricate flock of neatly constructed washi did much to cloud the vision and further distract the pursuers hot in her wake. Origami Onslaught, the super fan shrieked with glee. “The Crane’s signature move.” The trio of cars awash in that onslaught disengaged from combat, vision impaired by the impact of many finely crafted papers. They lost some ground. Lost some position. Two swerved and slowed to a halt. They avoided a collision by a paper-thin margin. The other pressed on, a minor dip of MPH, then hit the gas with mighty vengeance. But it was too late for that. The damage was done. The Crane was light-years ahead. And now it was lap twenty-two. That Manchurian Machine was doing its thing. Making headlines and making headway. She was pulling ahead. Seventh, sixth, fifth, fourth. At lap twentythree she was pressing for third. ed a real ugly but real fast bastard choking on toxic fumes that smelled like a dumpster on fire. She bested the Garbage Shoot, nice and smooth. Bested those brothers. Cleared the air. Nothing seemed able to slow down the flight of the Manchurian Crane. No one able to stop her advance. She was coming in for the swoop. Speed off the scale. Full pelt motion, baby. Mega motion deluxe. Then she took to the air, somewhat like an actual, real-life crane. All graceful. Flew up and up and up... then came down like a sack of shit. An explosion of flames and a pillar of black smoke was all that was left. It

happened so fast I had to replay it in my head to make any sense of it. Just when the Crane was sure to overtake its next opponent to secure second place a dramatic shift took wing. Drayke Silverstem’s Thirst exploded from within, its interior innards, console, and driver, all sprayed in a crimson fine mist. Its demonic bloodthirsty engine was given the go-ahead to drain its drink. Drayke okayed the big “bottoms up.” In a violent gorge of its co-pilot’s lifeforce, the Thirst erupted with a power, most poignant. Speed, supreme. Spent and drained, no longer of use, the empty shell of a husk that was once a man, the drain-dried co-pilot was cast from the fast-moving Thirst as it took off as-fast-as-you-please like items off the shelf on Black Friday. His desecrated corpse hit the pavement and rolled right under the wheel of the pursuing Manchurian Crane. The sudden impact from under the wheel at speeds pushing two hundred ten... well, that explains the flight of the Crane. And its botched, life-ending landing. Lap twenty-four. The Thirst was satiated. Moving fast as fuck and closing in on Neon Dreams. The gap was narrowing at a pace that would see that vamp bastard overtake Nova. At this rate darkness would take over the light. Black nightmares out-duel bright dreams. The Thirst was bound to drink in the glory. Carry home the victory. Take home the prize. Shit was about to get real. Or unreal. Who’s to say? I’ve had my head-fucks. And plenty of them. But this was a bloody migraine. Nova watched it all in the rearview mirror of Neon Dreams. She held the lead, but only just. A mile back the Manchurian Crane exploded. The probable death of its driver now a certainty. Shrapnel scattered the sky and earth. A car door flew and flapped like a manic bat. It collided with an unlucky crewman off to the side, his bald head rolled from his shoulders across the angled slope of the track. In that second or two that the blast had taken my attention away from the impending conclusion to the race, the Thirst had made her final push. She was a mere car’s length behind the Dream. Less than half a revolution to go. It’s all Silverstem needed to seize the gold. “Yahoo!” the die-hard cheered. “My money is on that bloodsucker! Today’s my

lucky day.” I frowned. I thought you didn’t care about money? “Take out the Queen!” He screamed. “Take down the Neon Queen!” I didn’t bother to check for security. All eyes would be on the tracks. I wound up and punched that super-fan square in the face. A whitehead burst across my knuckles and ejected cream-coloured pus. I wiped it on the collar of the fanatic, fast asleep and out cold. Curled up on the sticky concrete amongst the crumbs of his fucking nachos. The Thirst tapped Neon’s bumper. Get out of my dreams, Billy Ocean. You too, Drayke. Touch someone else’s bumper. The vampyre lay down the pedal. Hard. The Thirst made her move for the front. Neck and neck with the Queen. Finishing line in sight. Down to the fucking wire. The aggressor took the outside lane and lost a metre of advance. But now, from the higher ground, the Thirst was ripe for attack. She came down suddenly. Fierce and wild. With a jerk of the wheel to victimize her opponent, gravity assisting her inflicting punishment. Reinforced with a small fortune worth of Megaplastic, Neon Dream’s took the beating like a champ. Held her ground. Didn’t even stumble. Hardly winced. One of her neon tubes cracked and burst. But that’s superficial, baby. And that’s just super to me. Now, this next bit is going to sound funny. But it wasn’t. So don’t laugh. Funny, strange? Sure. Funny, haha? No way. The finish line was there. Like, right there. Dead ahead. Thirst and Neon Dreams were attached at the hip. Grinding each others’ flanks. Making ruin of their paint jobs. Who was going to win this thing... at that point I couldn’t say with a shred of confidence. This shit was heading straight for a photo finish. Except not. Not even, baby. What Nova did from inside of her car to achieve what came next... let’s just say perplexed ain’t the half of it. I was flat-out startled. Shocked and confused. Totally fucking lost.

Yet it can’t be denied. I saw what I saw. And everyone there in the stands at my side saw it with me. Well... all but the fanatic at my feet. He was sleeping off a sucker punch and missed the whole thing.

What we saw was a flash bomb neon flare. An epic piece of light show. A radical radiant outburst of visual vomit. What we saw was bloody weird. And altogether fantastic. What we saw... was Neon Dreams doing her thing. That thing what she and only she can do. That out-pour of unearthly light. That ghostly fevered disco show... the one that wins her races and leaves those in her tracks a blood smear on the road. Voodoo magic or some such fucked up who-the-hell-knows. Now get this. Angel wings? Nah. Not this time, mate. Not quite. Not even close. It was mock-fucking-duck. Yeah, you heard me right! It was last night’s Chinese takeaway. Fucking left-overs! It was all over the track. And it wasn’t your typical dish. Cubes of braised soy protein marinated in neon shimmer littered the track. They spilled from the sides and back of Nova’s ride, impossibly coalescing from jackshit-all. This wasn’t your bite-sized variety either. They were plum the size of a farmyard pig. Massive boulders of fluorescent meat substitute. And that’s not even mentioning the slew of vege-tables, slick and sodden with luminescent ooze. A garden med-ley of raver-themed aesthetic. Look, need I go on? It was fucking crazy. And it was everywhere. Thirst had eagerly drunk up its co-pilot but it didn’t want any of this. Her momentum got caught up in the slippery shit. She spun and swerved, splashing neon slurry. She had lost her edge. And just like that, she was out of the race. Off to the side. Better luck next year you vamp bastard fuck. Nova threw her hand brake, flicked the wheel, and skidded sideways, all style, over and across to the winning side of the finish line. The harsh jerking motion and sudden plummet from high speed to halt sent the last of the extradimensional Chinese takeaway flying. The first few rows of fans licked their lips and wiped their faces clean of neon MSG-laden juices. It was like a Shamu-splash at Sea World. Everyone cheered. Hair and clothes sodden with

sweet and sour. It was all sweet to me. And that was that. This year’s first-place winner: Neon Dreams. Nova, along with the other three winners from their respective quadrants, now became eligible... to race another bloody race. Participate and represent Earth in the Astro Circuit. The Galactic Crown. Off-world... It sunk in. Slowly. Away from Troub. Away from all the shit. Beyond the long reach of the Poet’s shadow... we’re going to space, baby!!

But wait... was I even invited?

BARING IT ALL

The Dream was taking some well-earned bed rest. Booked in some R and R at her local garage. So we took a cab home. We sat in the back, Nova and I. Separated from the driver by a partition of semitransparent energetic field. Soundproof. Supposedly. We began the ride back in silence. We were both catching our breaths, I think. Collecting our thoughts. Gathering up our nerves. Doing our best to smooth out the spikes going off the charts to our overworked adrenals. We stared out the cab win-dows and took in the yellowing, late afternoon sky that settled over Troubadour. I started off the conversation. “So like... wow.” “Yeah.” I had questions, man. A backlog of them. Some major “whats” and “hows.” Probably some “who’s” and “whys” if we’re going to be thorough. There was some serious explain-ing to be had. And for Nova, a great deal to give. The Chinese meal from dimension X, the angel wings from the night before, that electronic jack burrowing into her brain. Yeah, baby. I had some fucking questions alright. Hell, maybe one or two might even be answered. But first things first. “You won, Nova.” I tried to be cheery. And I was. Sort of. Just had some messed-up shit on my mind. “You really won.” “As if there was ever any doubt.” “There was doubt, alright! Don’t kid yourself, babe. That maniac vamp and his monster on wheels were close to swal-lowing you whole. He nearly had you for a second course. Af-ter he drained his co-pilot dry” “I suppose it was close,” she conceded.

“Honey,” I scoffed. “It was razor-edge. Close as they come. I mean until you dumped that Asian grub all over the track.” I paused and threw a sidelong glance her way. “Speaking of which...” “Later,” she said. Oh, bloody hell. “You’re going to have to explain some of this paranormal shit sometime, Nova.” “Do I? Do I have to?” She squinted my way. “Oh, come on!” I pleaded. “Throw a dog a bone, mate!” “I will,” she promised. “Later,” I said for her. “Exactly,” she agreed. I d my annoyance with a series of muffled com-plaints and returned my attention to the window. Darkness was settling in over Troubadour. She came alive with electric splendour. “That Silverstem guy,” I said after a few minutes. “Drayke.” “Yeah. Vampyre fuck.” “God, you’re racist.” “I am not!” “What about him?” She asked. “He tried to charm me,” I told her. “Before the race.” “Tried?” Bloke nearly had me sucking his necrotic dick. “Okay,” I itted. “He did charm me. Charmed the shit out of me. He wanted to make me his next co-

pilot.” I thought of his drained and discarded old one and shuddered. “Nova,” I trembled, “I nearly agreed to it.” “Frankly, I’m amazed you didn’t. That guy is top-tier vampyre stock. Comes from an old family. Very powerful. He shoul’ve been able to charm you out of your birthday suit with a single bat of a lash.” I told her about the brothers and their Garbage Shoot. How the little man with the big mouth came to my rescue. Turns out those guys came in second after Nova. Shot ed Silverstem on the side of the track and left him in a cloud of toxic wake. The thought made me smile. “Then you got lucky,” Nova assured me. She told me a little bit about the Drayke. The kind of stuff that made your skin crawl. Like his collection of “subordinates,” or more accurately, his blood bags. Religious goths that pined and swooned over the living dead. Begging to be slaves. Hoping to satiate their master’s thirst. People with a fixation on that near-eternal life. People obsessed with that endless cycle of bloodlust that lent odd superpowers to its condition. People wishing to inherit it themselves. People, no doubt, like Silverstem’s “copilot.” She went on to tell me about his prodigious fortune. His ancient line. His inheritance of wealth. His firm foothold in various social and political spheres. His popularity and poster-boy status, a darling among all vamps. His power and influ-ence, immense, solidified by his family name and a vast, bottomless reservoir of monetary depth. “Wait,” I stopped her. Impressed but confused. “This is the same guy that prances about on-screen for a day job? The guy in that second-rate soap during the daytime slot?” “Night’s of Our Lives,” she informed me. “Its ratings have skyrocketed since Silverstem ed the cast.” The cabbie turned, all excited. “I love that show!” He ex-claimed. Right, so the partition isn’t soundproof. The driver continued. Nights of Our Lives on his mind. Butted right in. “Do you think Denise and Johnny will get di-vorced? I can’t believe he’s two-timing with

Rachel. That slut’s a homewrecker and—” “Mate!” I cut him off. “We’re trying to have a private con-versation here.” “There’s a privacy setting right in front of you,” he was hardly apologetic. “Fuck’s sake!” I punched the privacy option and the parti-tion took on an amber glow it did not have before. “Could have mentioned it early.” I shook my head. Turned back to Nova. “Right, so Drayke is big shit in the vampie community. Has bucks to spare. Power to squander and flaunt. And he stars in some bullshit drivel for soccer moms and religious goths alike.” I flicked my head toward the front. “And fat cabbies.” “That’s the abridged version, yeah.” But she was reading from the full text, so she told me some more. And the more Nova told me, the more I was intrigued. The more fearful of the man I became. She spoke of Silverstem’s underground manor, a fancy piece of flash digs, built beneath the foundations and sewers of Troub. The Obsidian Basement, it had been nicknamed, dubbed thus for its black aspect, its shimmering construct. Others had dubbed it the Third Circle of Hell, the first two being Troubador and her sewers. Wild, extravagant parties of exuberance were hosted in that subterranean manor. Troubadour’s upper-crust vam-pyres and prominent religious goths alike flocked to events of high-class debauchery. There, they massed and mingled, danced and chatted, fucked and fed, all while flaunting their tremendous, copious wealth. That weird and wonderful blend of upper-society meets teenage, lawless antics. Those various parties had a unique flavour, a singular essence, that brought to light certain hues of a demonic Great Gatsby. “Oh yeah,” Nova added. “And he likes cats.” “Cats?” After all that she had told me, I found that info rather trivial. “Who doesn’t? Cats rule.” “He has one thousand of them.” “One thousand!”

“Black cats,” she added. “Black from head to toe. The lot of them.” “How many fucking litter boxes does that guy have? Jesus!” “That I cannot say.” She parted her lips to form an “O” with her mouth and breathed hot fog onto her window. She drew with her little finger the outline of a cat. “There’s one last thing about him,” she said, staring out her window. “He’s got one thousand dogs too?” “That would make a rowdy household,” she chuckled. “No,” she wiped the cat outline with the heel of her palm and turned to face me. “Drayke Silverstem has a personal griev-ance with the Prince.” I blinked, startled. “Wait...” and leaned in close. “Prince. Like, the Prince. Prince, himself. The big man up in the stars?” Prince, or ‘the Prince,’ was the leader of the Galactic Realm. Domineer of the stars. Dictator of space. President of infinity. Lord of the Cosmos. The Astro King. The most powerful man in existence. He ruled from Agave Prime, light-years away in the far reaches of the Sweetener System. Yet even from there, his influence was felt. His judgment known. His actions feared. Prince was almighty. Prince was big fucking shit. “Yup. Prince, himself.” “Wait a minute!” I protested. “So some bloke who races for a hobby and headlines in a soap opera on the side... has a personal grievance with the Prince?” “Some bloke who comes from an extremely rich and powerful vampyre family and holds great influence within and well beyond Troubadour, perhaps beyond the quadrant, yes.” “Fuck me!” And this same guy put the charm on me earlier that afternoon. “What’s the grievance about?” I asked. “Something about a girl.”

“Always is,” I shrugged. “Anything more specific?” “Not as such,” she itted. “When Drayke and I aren’t racing against each other we keep to ourselves.” “Yeah, I’m with you there, mate.” There was a lengthy pause. We both had shit on our minds. I gazed at Nova as she looked out of her window. Pretty Nova. Sexy Nova. She was pensive and far off. Her brows knit and expression deepened. She was now a he. He was gorgeous. He was dashing. Then he scratched the bridge of his nose and he was again a girl. How could I have seen it any other way? Her lips were full and delicious, pushed out and puckered as she chewed on them in consternation. I turned away and gazed out of my own window. Looking out over the cityscape that had always been my home, journeying back, deeper into Troubadour’s central heart. I noted the return of dominance to Poet’s Pride over the surrounding buildings and skyline. “Anyways,” Nova said after a time. “We have a chance to meet him.” “What?” I asked. “Who? Drayke? No thanks. Met him earlier. Don’t wish to ever again.” “No, Zap,” she said slowly. “Prince,” deliberately. “We have a chance to meet the Prince.” I looked at her like I would have looked at some crazed and deluded mental patient. White onesie straightjacket and all. Fresh and raving from the loony bin. “The hell are you on about? Prince? Us, meet him? Fuck off, Nova.” “I’m serious, Zap.” And she was. Serious. “But... how? And why? And why would we even want to? What the hell is going on!?” All those questions… they just kept stacking up. “Me winning today...” she trailed off. “Yeah? Jesus, don’t leave me hanging, man.” “It means I’m eligible to participate in the Galactic Crown. The off-world event.

The race of all races.” “The big ticket,” I offered. “Yeah, some fanatic in the stands told me all about it. Hey, congratulations, Nova.” “Thanks,” she turned away. Almost shy. What the hell? I only met her last night but Nova doesn’t do shy. Something was up. “So if I win that race...” “The Galactic Crown.” She nodded. “If I win that race...” You earn a shit ton of moolah. “We will be introduced to Prince himself.” “Woah! Really? Damn! Wait... we?” “You and I, Zap. We’re a team.” She looked me in the eye. We shared something then. “You’re crew.” “I am?” How I was crew was beyond me. Moral , I guess. Either way, the attention I was getting was giving me heavenly vibes. “Of course... there’s just one thing.” She bit her lip. I held my breath. Waited. The seconds dragged on. The cab smelled. “I can’t afford the entry fee.” I stared at her for a moment. Sad. Sympathetic. Then I thought about it. “What do mean you can’t afford it?” “Entry fee is a bitch,” she sighed. “It ain’t cheap.” “You won the bloody race!” I complained. “You advance to the Galactic Crown.” “I’m eligible to advance,” she corrected. “Provided I pay the entry fee. And as I say, it’s a bitch. I ain’t got the bucks to cover.” I wasn’t buying it. “That’s a stinking pile of neon horseshit!” I just couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Your ride. Your digs... you’re loaded! You’ve got a Gossip Girl for fuck’s sake! Cindy alone would cover the cost. You don’t like her anyhow. Have her make you one last meal. She’ll enjoy that. Then sell her off. Done. Fee covered.”

Nova stared, expression slack. “Strictly speaking, she doesn’t belong to me.” “Huh?” “She’s my brother’s,” again, that defeated look. Deadpan. Sad. “Along with the rest of my place. Everything. It’s in his name. Everything but Neon Dreams.” And then her eyes came to life. “She’s mine.” “Your brother??” I didn’t really see an issue. “Okay... so ask him to cover the fee. If all that stuff belongs to him it’ll be pocket change to his like. Simple shillings.” “I can’t. I don’t even know where he is. If he’s even alive.” And that explained her faraway look. Grief. “We could pawn off Lambo,” She suggested. “That would cover the cost and some.” We? There it is again. “Well... Strictly speaking, she doesn’t belong to me.” I echoed her words. “But you stole her fair and square” “As fair and square as theft can be considered. Yeah. But I’m not just going to sell off Lambo. She may not be mine but she’s dear to my heart.” But so are you. “I need your help, Zap. I need you. Please!” It was the first time I had seen the Neon Queen divert from being cool. Her vulnerability... it seized and melted my heart. I drank in those sad Baby Blues. “Please, Zap. Help me.” She was playing me like a fiddle. But I didn’t mind the attention. Besides, she did need me. And I couldn’t go toting around in my pimped out ride around town, stolen as she was. Would be like trying to make a peacock discreet among pigeons. “Look,” I reasoned, “if I’m going to ditch Lambo and cash in some megabucks to get you into this off-world race, then you’re taking me with you.” “Of course,” no hesitation. “Done.” I didn’t stop there. “And you’re going to fill me in on whatever the fuck is going on with your car. Those wings. That astro-dimensional serving of Chinese takeaway. That hole in your head you play with when you’re nervous.” She dropped her hand from behind her ear. “No more secrets, babe. I need to know. I

want in.” She looked at me long and hard. Any vulnerability that may have been in those eyes had vanished. Maybe it had been an act. Nova was all cool. I met her stare in the back of that smelly cab and held my ground. Slowly, she nodded. And at that moment our fates had been sealed. The two of them intertwined. She told me more than I ever could have imagined. She told me everything.

* * *

We were dropped off in front of Nova’s building. I yelled to the cabbie, “Yo homes, smell ya later!” Looking up the length of that lofty tower I assessed its lack of charm. It truly was a grim and depressing place, its cheerless facade typical of the vamp neighborhood. Nova’s home... it was as much as it could be the antithesis of her car. Neon Dream’s, all pretty lights and oo-la-la. Compared to this? I guess even the gaudiest of Queens has her funeral attire. We traversed the absurdly slow vertical journey in that mirrored closet of a lift. Just like last time, wordless through-out the ascent. We were still gathering our calm after the adrenaline burst of the day’s events. There would be plenty of talking later. The elevator went “ding” and this time I took proper stock. Floor 57. I could have just asked her. But I liked being silently observant. As a kid, I had dreams of being a detective. When we entered the flat Cindy welcomed us with a barrage of subservient questions. “Would you like this?” “Can I get you that?” “You must be hungry. Would you like me to make you a meal?” It had been a long ride home. And I had stayed well clear of that shitty stadium food. Couldn’t afford it. As far as I know, Nova hadn’t had a bite since breakfast that morning. The two of us were bloody starving. “I can make you your favourites. Whatever you like.” Cindy tirelessly attempted to please. Overeager was her factory setting. “Would you like me to make you a

meal?” Her signature query. “Shut up, Cindy.” Nova wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. “We’re getting takeout.” “As you wish,” the Gossip Girl complied. “What do you want?” Nova asked me. I thought about bioluminescent cubes of tofu large enough to be used in the construction of the pyramids. “Anything but Chinese.” Apart from some grub what I really needed was a change of clothes. I hadn’t swapped threads since the morning before. Since then, I’d been involved in a high jacking, taken part in a wild Rat Race, been charmed by a high society vampyre soap star, witnessed a nail-bite of a race, and seen a couple of paranormal episodes of “what-the-fuck.” Plenty to sweat over. And I sure did stink like shit. Nova herself had had a proper wash and change after the race, the Silver Halo facilities made available to her. I was envious. “I know we’re not exactly the same fit,” I said, “but you got anything I can change into? These rags are past their best. Certified stank.” She motioned to a closet and told me her brother’s stuff was on the left. That we would be a similar fit. And we were. His stitches and seams were my own, exactly. May as well have been tailored to my dimension. The specs fit. Everything was a match. From shoes to slacks to shirt. All except one thing... our different styles. Those were at odds with each other. His and mine. Totally out of wack. Discordant. Different in every way. As I rifled through the options, I gave out a little laugh. Made a bit of a protest. “I can’t wear these,” I complained. “Jesus!” I remarked. “Was your brother a clown?” My acciden-tal use of “was” in referral to her brother had been a mistake. It had also been insensitive. He was, after all, missing, out of touch, possibly dead. It put Nova in a sour, brooding mood. “If you’re not happy with the selection then you can just fuck off, Zap. This isn’t

a J.C. fucking Penny.” She hid her face behind a takeout menu. But I had seen what were the begin-nings of tears. “Sorry,” I said lamely. And rummaged through a selection laden with bright colour. I cursed but did so under my breath. I did the best I could with what I had to work with. In the end I was decked out in shades of purple and blue. Navy tros with periwinkle pockets and lavender cuffs. Pant-leg seams stylishly visible, stitched in with a thick thread of eggshell blue. Upstairs I sported a simple cotton teeshirt to match exactly with tro pockets and layered over that a plastic waterproof vest of light electric blue. A large yellow star stamped across its back collided in compliment with all those shades and variations of blue. A wide magenta belt studded in black enameled squares separated top and bottom. Surely, I’ll look a fool. I was bound to look like shit. Except I didn’t. No, honestly. It worked. Somehow it bloody worked! Nova’s brother was a man of gaudy taste, I’ll not say it otherwise. Yet the candy floss swirl of overly sweet components came together rather smartly. The cohesive col-lection of threads worked well as a whole. “Wow,” I said. “Your brother had vision.” “Would you stop talking like he’s a thing of the past?” Shit. I did it again. “Fuck. Sorry, Nova. That’s not what I mean.” “I know,” her tone was sad but forgiving. “It’s okay. Just be mindful when you speak about him. My brother... we were close.” “Yeah, it must be tough being out of touch. We’ll find him, Nova.” I had no idea what the fuck I was talking about. It was an empty promise. Just seemed the right thing to say. She smiled. I must have done well. “You look a little silly in his clothes,” she giggled. “But even a little silly, you do look good.” And by the Poet’s Prose, I did! I looked in the mirror and did the head to toe. This is a good time to tell you that I’m not a handsome man. I’m not ugly, mind.

And maybe even a little handsome, if I can set aside some modesty. But I lacked style. Lacked the X factor. My hair was shit. Thin and brittle. I was on the short side of average. I was bereft of fashion sense. Yet here I was, looking rather fancy and looking rather good. I marveled at the loud but sensible getup. It made a statement, that look. It said space-adventurer-casual. I decided I liked it. Bzzz. The talk-box told us our grub was here. Sub sandwiches and slaw. Fuck... I wish it was sushi. We sat down and tucked into our meals. Filled the hole. And then we began our chat.

“So,” I kicked us off, “fill me in.” Where to start? “Tell me what the hell is going on.” Nova looked at me from across the foldout table. She pushed the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth with a single outstretched finger. Her nail polish had been changed again. Pale powder blue. Mayonnaise collected in the corners of her mouth. The bite had been overambitious. Coral red lipstick smeared pink into the white sauce with the wipe of a napkin. Sub crumbs littered her lap like a sprinkle of fish food. It was a sloppy affair. Not at all well done. Yet I watched with fascination that bordered on arousal. Never in the past had I understood those videos of people sitting in silence and eating. Spoonful at a time, the long and tedious process of meal consumption. It was boring and so... I don’t know... anti-erotic. I guess digestion just ain’t my thing, in any phase. Yet infatuation-fueled for the subject in front of me, I think at that moment I came to understand the appeal. “Right,” she dusted her hands of sourdough flakes. Wiped the grease on the thighs of her shorts. “Where to begin...?” “Dealer’s choice,” I offered. “Not like there’s a shortage of options.” Nova drained a glass of water. Poured herself a whiskey. Drained that too. Cleared her throat.

“So my brother’s a genius,” she started off. “Doesn’t get any smarter than him.” She paused, taking a dreamy moment to gaze out the window. Her sad reflection on the glass was a ghost, transparent and hazy, beyond which lay a view that looked over the lit-up city. Multilayered cityscape featuring a glittering spectacle of electric mosaic. Twinkle twinkle little star. Refracted shimmer dancing off a connect-the-dots of cubic zirconia, stained glass, and polished chrome. Troubadour’s Saturday night attire. “He was always like that. Clever as they come. Sharp enough for McCurdy’s cheddar.” She smiled. I shook my head. “I don’t want to hear about your brother, Nova. I want the facts. The wings. The takeout food from Hell. That thing in your head. Your brother can wait. I know you’re worried about him. I get that. But I’m really not interested. Like I said, I want the facts.” I realize now that I was being a dick. But I was tired of being left in the dark. Nova was pissed. “Look, Zap. I’ll give you the facts. Everything I got. But I’ll be giving them how I like, in the order I like. So shut the fuck up, eat your food, and listen.” I looked at my half-eaten sub, wishing it was sushi. “Okay. Okay.” So I did as she said. Ate my veggie sub. Shut the fuck up. And I listened. When she said that her brother was smart, she wasn’t kidding. Her brother was August Bright. The August Bright. Even a slumdog like me, born and raised in the back alleys of Troub, knew that name. How could you not? It was a household name. Even for the Homeless. August Bright was a scientist of exceptional brilliance. The leading authority in cybernetic technologies. The top cyber-neticist in the Galactic Realm. He worked for Prince directly, and over the course of his tenure had outfitted or reoutfitted the galaxy’s Dominar entirely in cybernetic prosthetics. Limbs. Organs. Spinal cord and skeleton. Even various parts of his mind. Designed and constructed by August Bright’s creative genius, the Prince was entirely augmented in cybernetic parts. Except, of course, for his eyes. He was well known for it. Eccentric, was our galaxy’s leader. Decked out in metal and megaplastic, head to toe. Internal. External. Top to bottom. The works. Sheathed in a milky synthetic epidermic layer or left aesthetically bare, his royal highness was ever-so-near to artificial

exclusivity. Prince’s eyes alone glared malevolent and intelligent in the originality of their biological form. Bright blue, uniquely human. Set within a chiseled chrome face be-neath a metallic cranium fused with a jeweled crown... the Prince could stare to submission the boldest and most defiant with that odd and out-of-place set of peepers. That pair of icy blues... that faint and final vestigial trace of Homo sapien heritage. The rest of him was a collection of synthetic craft. An orchestration of artificial parts. Reformed. Deformed. Made different and new. Upgraded or downgraded, depending on who you spoke to. The Burnhearts of the world would call it a vain and tasteless stray from the ancient design. An act of folly. Others would look at it with iration and envy. Made better. Made worse. Whatever one’s opinion, it undeniably made stronger, faster, more tolerant of external conditions, diseases, and physical harm. Cybernetics, at its best and most dramatic, was a transfer of consciousness into an enhanced physical form. Prince had become the model to accentuate that claim. August Bright had been the one to demonstrate it. And then I made the simple connection. August Bright. Bright. Lady Bright. Her alias didn’t refer to the bright lights of Neon Dreams. Or maybe did, but only in part. “Neon Queen” wasn’t just in reference to her vehicle either. Nor likely poking fun of her androgyny by calling her a drag queen. Nova was literally a Bright. Her family name. And titles of Lady and Queen came from an animosity for her associations, loose though they may be, with royalty and the rich. And if her brother was indeed August Bright then Nova certainly was rich. Rich as a Lady. Rich as a Queen. Rich as shit. It explained her apartment. The high-rise digs. The Gossip Gal. Neon Dreams and its inner workings of megaplastic and other unique features. It explained all the luxuries, all the amenities, despite Nova’s sloppy existence and racer-centric world. It actually explained a hell of a lot. But it didn’t explain those otherworldly angel wings. Didn’t explain that technicolor tofu. Didn’t explain that jack going deep into Nova’s head. Those explanations were soon to come. “It’d be about a year back now. We were having a laugh. August and I.” She told me. “Having a laugh and having a drink. Actually, we shared a bottle of whiskey

between us.” She paused. “Speaking of which, would you like a drink?” I offered my glass. “Just a splash.” She filled it up to the rim. “That’s some splash,” I shrugged and downed it. The booze hit my tummy and sent a warm shiver through my core. “I popped some funsies and decided to go out,” she contin-ued. “Dancing. Clubbing. Hopping. Whatever. I urged August to come along. But he was having one of his brainwaves. Some off-the-charts brilliant idea circling his head. He decided to stay home.” “So I went out on my lonesome. Hit the scene solo. Booze and party stims doing their thing. A vamp could’ve been drugged on my blood. I was flying high. I was having a ball.” “I was doing lines off some girl’s tits. Pushing off the advances of some creep who watched us with wide eyes and a hard-on. He offered us some juice, so we changed our tune. Made room on the booth. Shared a cartridge of prime ampyou-crazy. Pulled the curtain. And fucked.” “I had a thing for that girl. I wanted her for myself. Through the haze of liquor and stims clouding my perception, I was together enough to know I’d like to see her sometime sober. Yet somehow, I found myself going home with the new guy. The creep. Drugs are like that. They dictate your evening. Make all your choices and leave you in an in-out blur.” “We walked the streets, me and this guy. He kept feeding me drugs and loving compliments. I accepted the former, ignored the latter. His hand gratuitously cupped my ass but I was too doped up to care. The creep wanted to go to his place, but with the final shred of good sense left to me, I insisted we go to mine. I didn’t mention my brother.” “How we got here I cannot recall, but I walking through the door. My brother was manic with invention. On his hands and knees with a pencil in his mouth and papers in disarray. His handbag spewed all manner of instruments and parts, tools and electronics, countless items of who-the-hell-knows. When he looked up to the intrusion of our entry, he became a concentration of rage.” “Lucky for me his anger had been aimed at the creep. I was naked from head to toe. All except one sock rolled up past my knee. A bit of blood was trickling

down my thigh and I had a mean shiner over my left eye. A split lip. Me and the creep must have fucked in that slow elevator ride up. It must have been rough. I don’t a thing. Thank God.” “Well, my brother went into protection mode. Had a wrench at the ready and put it to use. Crushed the creep’s jaw and kicked him in the cock. Pulled out his knife and carved a nice thick tally down that stranger’s cheek. Dragged him to the lift. Spat upon his crumpled form. And punched ‘Ground Floor’ to send him on his merry. We left the creep to his slow descent.” “Refill?” she asked me. I was feeling good. Feeling tipsy. “I better not.” She filled my glass halfway. I wasn’t the type to ignore a drink sitting in front of me. I upended my bevy. Nova did the same, then carried on. “August found my clothes in the hall. He brought them in and gathered new ones. He washed me up and dressed me. Gave me the most pitiful drink of water. I wanted more. I desperately wanted more. Water and food, both. But he said I couldn’t. Told me it wasn’t wise.” “I was too drugged to question his judgment. Too recently beaten and raped, too concussive. My mind was in a fevered state. I had no idea I’d be taken advantage of a second time over.” I had been leaning back in my chair. I nearly fell over. “What?! By your own brother?” “By my own brother,” she confirmed. “But not in the way you may imagine.” Her fingers brushed the metal jack behind her ear. “How could you? After all, it had never been done.” Images of the Kama Sutra came to mind. Never been done? It would have to be one hell of a position to be the first of its kind! I kept the out-of-place humour to myself. I was ashamed my mind even went there. “August had had an idea that night. Boozed-up and on drugs, it came unbidden to his genius mind. He had been working on it all night. He had it figured out. But he needed a test subject. He needed a guinea pig.” I thought of the lab animals that were under my care. Poor things. Victims to the

trial and error of science. The progress of some lab student’s thesis. It was a fate unkind and cruel. Perverse and inhumane. It was a fate no being should ever endure. Was it a fate that belonged to Nova? “He wanted me empty. Free of food and drink. He needed it that way for the anesthesia.” “Anesthesia!” I roared. “With all the drugs you had in your system? He could’ve killed you, Nova! I thought you guys were close...” “We were,” she told me. “We are. But the invention was on him. A fever of need. Like the heaviest of mantles. The thickest of mists. August would get lost in his inventiveness. He told me in sobriety it was the greatest of his weaknesses.” “What a prick,” I shouted. “That’s no excuse I’ll accept.” “No one’s asking you to,” she said frankly. “No one cares.” She poured me another half glass. I was drunk. I drained my drink and listened on. “The next morning I had the mother of all hangovers.” “I’ll bet.” “Oh, my god. Like you wouldn’t believe.” She poured. We drank. “Anyways, my brother brings me breakfast. Eggs on toast. Cup of joe. Just watches me eat and smiles. I could tell something was up. Something was different.” “He asks me how I feel. If I feel any different. Told him my head hurts like a mother fucker. That my loins have a heavy ache. He told me to remain calm. That he wished to reveal something to me. He fetched a hand mirror and had me hold it behind my ear.” Nova parted her hair with two fingers tipped in baby blue. They matched her eyes. I could now see clearly the shimmer of light coming off of the metal. That jack going down into Nova’s brain. “He showed me this,” Nova explained. "So that’s what he did to you while you were out?" I leaned in for a closer look. It tunneled into her head deeper than the light would reveal. "Jesus. What is it?" I asked. “Yeah...” she leaned back in her chair. Poured yet another half glass for us both.

“That’s where things get interesting.” She gulped her bevy down to the last drop. Motioned to me to do the same. My head was swimming. Oh, what the hell... I followed suit. Buzzing hard. Ready for anything. Okay... maybe not ready for this. Nova described what it was going into her head. Told me all about her brother’s drug-addled impromptu invention. His improv surgical procedure. His spur-ofthe-moment mind rape of his sister. August Bright. Genius to the last. Brother of the year, not so much. He called it a Dream Modulator and gave it its name, Morpheus. To go along with his modulator, or Dream Machine as Nova often called it, her brother had constructed a set of neurosynthesized recording devices. Gelatin-filled bio-synthetic membranes encased in a neat capsule form of metal and glass. Of these there were only three. By insertion of capsule into the surgically implanted device the host to Morpheus could record their own dreams. Reinsertion after ejection of a recorded dream allowed one to re-experience them. Relive in wakeful consciousness the dream that was experienced in a subconscious REM state. Reinsertion and replay of a dream also deleted the capsule’s content. The re-experience of a dream could only be done once. Having only three capsules limited the host any real chance to stockpile. Before his sudden disappearance, August Bright intended to market this strange yet alluring device. “Holy shit!” I had been pretty drunk but the explanation had halfway sobered me up. “So you can record your dreams? Relive them?” “Re-dream them,” she corrected. “Yeah. I can” “Dude... that is pretty fucking cool.” Even if it was surgi-cally forced upon you while you slept. “It is,” she itted, never mind the forceful installation. “But only the once?” “Just the once,” she confirmed. “But a conscious re-dream is far more real than the original subconscious dream. It’s ultra-real. More real than real.”

“The sex dreams must be incredible.” Nova nodded. “And the nightmares horrific,” she added. “But the only way to clear a capsule for rerecording of a new dream is to re-dream the old one.” “Which means re-dreaming even the nightmares,” I worked it out. “Exactly.” “Damn...” “Yeah,” the last drops of the whiskey bottle found our two glasses. This time I didn’t hesitate. I was eager for the drink. Needed it. “But that’s not everything,” she said and slammed down her empty glass. “Wait...” I asked. “There’s more?” “There’s more.” So she told me about another time. Not long after the story she had just told. How August had come by on a whim. Unexpected. Told Nova he had a surprise for her. Told her to him in the underground car park. Nova met his request with compliance, but not without dishing out a bit of tude. “You’re a twat, Augie. A real fuck face.” “Love you too, sweet sis.” They stood in front of Neon Dreams. August grinning in anticipation. Some secret under his sleeve. “What?” Nova demanded. “Let’s take a seat inside.” His mischievous grin remained. “If you messed with Neon... August, I’ll kill you. I swear it.” They got inside. Sat. Everything looked normal. “Okay...” Nova prompted. “What am I supposed to be seeing.” “Mind if I bum a ciggie?” “But Augie, you don’t even smoke.”

He shrugged. “Today I do.” Nova tossed him a fag. Rolled down the window. “Enough fucking around, bro. What’s your game?” He ignored her. “The cigarette lighter adaptor... punch it, will you?” Nova squinted. Frowned. Fully suspicious. “This better not be triggered to some sort of self-destruct mechanism.” She slowly reached for the lighter adaptor. Paused. And punched it. The console lit up. Came alive. A boot-up jingle filled the interior. The lighter adaptor opened and extended upward, a hollow joystick. Its aperture all too familiar... A Morpheus modulator, or a variation of its design. “No fucking way!” I interrupted. “Way, man. Way.” Nova reached for her glass. Found it empty. Frowned. “August had it installed within Neon Dreams. To sync with and respond to her mechanical systems. The dream capsules carrying my own dreams could now be placed into her modulator which feeds directly into her engine systems.” “Woah…” I couldn’t believe what she was telling me. “Fucking… Woah!” “Yeah… except through Neon’s modulator the dream becomes skewed. Altered. Deformed. It isn’t re-dreamed but made present in physical form. Not as it should be either... not at all an accurate conjuring of the true images and occurrence within the dream. They become something bastardized. Some-thing debased. Something tainted with the wizardry I suspect makes them possible in the first place.” She offered an example. “A dream of your guardian angel, for instance...” “The wings!” I exclaimed. “Precisely,” she nodded. “And a dream, in all of its mun-dane simplicity, of eating the meal you had before bed...” “The takeaway from Hell!”

“Yup,” she said. “You got it. Digested through the Mor-pheus on Neon Dreams they turn into something that can light up the sky. Turn into something bizarre. Unpredictable. They come dowsed in neon, like they’re a piece of her soul. They can kill a man. Crush a car. Dump ‘today’s special’ all over the track.” “They can win you races,” I chimed in. “Yeah,” she itted. “That too. They’ve got their uses. I’ll not say that they don’t.” She continued to play with the metal rim that plummeted inward, deep into her skull. “What August did to my head he did to my car. He did to Neon Dreams.” I squinted at that. Thought about it for a moment. Decided against it. “But you said ‘neuro’ this, ‘bio’ that. How does neur-ology... how does biology... how does any of that apply to a fucking race car? How does it work?” “Do I look like my brother?” She asked, annoyed. “Don’t answer that,” now even more so. “Because I do look like him. A lot. We are twins. But the point is I don’t know how it works. How any of it works.” She threw her hands up in the air. “But I think August was applying elements of magic to his scientific expertise.” “Bloody hell!” “I know. It’s messed up. But it can be done,” she assured me. “You saw what Drayke had lurking under his hood. You got a glimpse of Thirst in action. That’s no old-time Burnheart mechanics at work. That’s pure vampyre magic. The blackest of voodoo. I think August did something similar with the Dream. Except probably not black magic. More like...” “Neon magic?” I hazarded a joke. “Ha! If such a thing exists...” she stretched her arms out and yawned. “Who the hell knows, Zap. Its a fucked up world we live in.” “Amen, babe. A-fucking-men.” It was my turn to yawn. “We’ve had a big day,” she said. “I’m wiped, man.” “It’s been a big day,” I agreed. “And I’ve got half a liter of bourbon in my belly.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” She rubbed her temples. “Let’s hit the hay.” “Roger that, babes.” I was stretched out on the couch. Cozy and on the verge. Well on my way to Slumber City. Snooze Town. Z-ville. Nova was sprawled out on her sloppy little mattress, a crumpled jumper for a pillow. We were about to retire. “Zap?” “Yeah, Nova?” “There’s another reason... other than simply to win... that this off-world race is important to me.” “Oh, yeah?” “Taking first in the Galactic Crown. Sure... that’s a dream. But winning means we get an audience with Prince.” “And you can ask him about your missing brother.” I had worked it out earlier. “Yeah...” “We’ll find him, Nova.” Again, that empty promise. Except I think I actually meant it this time. Something in me believed that we would. “And Nova?” “Yeah?” I clutched at my pillow. Pretended it was her. “Sweet dreams.” I turned out the light.

* * *

Later that night. Sometime well and deep into the wee hours of the dark. I stirred

and made note of a soft luminous glow. I sat up and groaned. My head was in hangover mode. I smashed some water and felt a little better. “Nova, are you up?” I turned to the light. Turned to observe that reflective aqua shimmer playing off of the win-dow. “Nova, is that you?” I rubbed away the tiredness of my eyes. Adjusted to the low level of dim blue light. Took in a ghostly presence dis-played before me. Then I saw what it was. It was Nova. She was on her knees in the corner. Back arched. Head thrown back. Clothes cast aside, naked head to toe. She was baring it all. Her body was bathed in a gentle blue-green wash of luminosity. A sheen of sweat covered her to reflect those sea-themed cool colours. Frozen in place, positioned on her mat-tress, she was like a mermaid perched on a rock of a receding ocean tide. The light that enveloped her had come from the portal that delved deep into her mind. The cavern that burrowed behind her right ear. She was engaged in Morpheus’ re-dreaming capabilities. Her consciousness was elsewhere. She was, here in this room, a vacant shell. Her eyes were wide but they stared at nothing. She was completely, entirely, in the throes of a dream. The onset of my arousal had suddenly occurred to me as I watched Nova do nothing at all, sitting there naked. Good Lord, she was a sight to behold! I say “she” and I say it now without any lack of confidence whatever. For Nova, a woman, sat plainly before me. Well, that’s one more secret revealed. One less mystery to solve. A lot of boxes had been ticked off the list today. I was feeling a lot more informed. I didn’t want to take advantage any further. I decided to cash in my chips. I left Nova to her dreams. And I returned to mine.

SOAP SCUM AND SCHEMING

I woke earlier and fresher than I might have guessed. The sun hung crisp and new over Troubadour. A virginal amber hue glowed warmly over a thousand concrete spires. My hang-over was trivial. Much to my surprise. I looked in the corner. Nova was out. Sheets upended over her head. She was sleeping off a post-race adrenalin come-down. That, and the lion’s share of that bottle of fifty percent bourbon we demolished. Oh yeah... let’s not forget her late-night engagement with Morpheus either. Girl must be shat-tered. The vamp glass had been dimmed to combat the morning light. Cindy was humming a bit of white noise to drown out any audio disturbances. I was grateful, doing my best to keep the peace. Trying not to make a sound. My eyes were on Nova’s covered form as I crossed the room, real slow. I did my best to allow her to rest. A floorboard creaked under my advances and a pair of feet poked out from beneath the blankets. Toes polished shades of rose. My own toes were tippying over to the door. I held a finger to my lips. Gave Cindy the signal to keep it down. I was proud of that old Gossip Gal. She didn’t even offer to make me a meal as I crossed the kitchen and exited out into the hallway. Out and about, I fetched us both some breakfast burritos, myself a new pair of clothes. They weren’t half bad, August’s hand-me-downs. Those wildly bright coloured threads. But they weren’t me. And for God’s sake, did I ever need a fresh pair of underpants! On second thought, I kept the vest. The blue one with the star on its back. It’d match Big Blue real nice. Yeah, and Lambo, too. When I got back Nova was still out cold. Sleeping away the morning. Enjoying a day trip in Z-Town. Snoozing, snoring, reloading an empty dream capsule with whatever dream her subconscious brought to her mind. I dug into my burrito and waited for her to rise naturally.

It wasn’t until half past noon when she began to stir. The time to rise was well past ripe. I deliberately coughed. Clinked a mug with a spoon as I stirred a fresh brew of strong coffee. That did the trick. Nova sat up. Blinked in the dim light of the vampyre-friendly gloom. “Morning,” I said. She turned to face me, still half asleep. “Make that afternoon,” I amended. “Here,” I walked over with offerings. “Burrito’s cold. But the coffee is hot.” “Thanks,” Nova sat up and the sheets fell from her shoulders. She was wearing a sports bra. I was both relieved and disappointed. Stained in sweat, it hugged her tight like a partial straight jacket. It accentuated her lack of breasts, her streamlined, athletic form. “Glass, Cindy,” she announced loudly. The digital input dropped and the vamp shades thinned and disappeared. Un-hindered natural light poured in. Brightness spilled across the dirty mattress, the dusty floorboards. The view revealed one hell of a day, a bright and clear afternoon over Troub. “Coffee’s good.” “Cindy is a pro.” “Yeah,” said begrudgingly. “At least she’s good for some-thing.” “Don’t listen to her, Cindy.” I winked covertly at Nova. “You’re a champion. A real beast in the kitchen.” “Many thanks, guest Zap.” I sensed from beneath the depths of her programming, between the chinks to her ar-mour that demanded of her to be at all times both polite and proper, a fierce and tremendous pride. A subdued electronic ego. A guarded Gossip Gal glory. “You can drop the guest setting on Zap, Cindy,” Nova said between sips of joe. “Remove all limitations.” “Of course, Nova. Done.” Cindy’s tone reflected the most minor accentuation of an almost imperceptible joy. “Shall I grant former guest, Zap full dweller’s tenancy privileges?”

“Yeah,” Nova said. “And print him a key.” “As you wish.” Then, after a pause, “Welcome, Zap.” “Thanks, Cinders.” Nova chuckled. “She’s got a crush on you, you know?” “Huh? Is that even possible?” “Zap,” Nova drained the rest of her joe. “My car spews neon tangible versions of my dreams. I’m not about to doubt a robotic diversion from factory programming.” Good point. “I see what you mean.” Nova unwrapped her burrito and devoured it with gusto. I brought her some water and a fresh cup of black. Her hang-over wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry, but it went down a notch or two. Machinery hummed in the background and Cindy told me my key was done. “So,” I questioned Nova. Hesitated. “Does this mean I’m moving in?” Nova finished her burrito. Crumpled the foil wrapper and threw it aside nowhere particular. “Yeah,” she said, smacking her lips. “Sure. Why not? So long as you don’t care about the mess. Don’t hassle me to do the cleaning or anything.” She stood up and stretched. The sheets fell to her ankles. She was wearing panties along with that sports bra, but nothing else. I swallowed. “Oh yeah,” she added. “And so long as you stick to the couch. It ain’t the best place for shut-eye but it’s all that’s on offer.” “Of course,” I agreed. I stared out the window. Doing my best to avert my gaze. “Besides,” she continued. “Won’t matter, anyhow. Living here I mean.” “How’s that?” I asked. She breathed deep the vapours of her second coffee. Took a long drought. Smiled satisfaction. “Cause we’re going off to win that Galactic Crown,” she

told me. “We’re going into space!” Going into space... I sort of forgot about all that. Holy shit! We’re going into fucking space!! “Now sort yourself out,” she told me. “I’m going to have a shower. When I’m done let’s hit the streets. Make some deals. Get ready to say your goodbyes.” “Goodbyes?” I was confused. A bit lost. Distracted by the panties, I must it. “Yeah, man,” she said. “Your wheels. It’s time to pawn off your ride. Our ticket to the stars. It’s time to say goodbye to... what do you call her again?” “Lambo.” “Yeah, that’s right. Awful name, Zap. It’s time to say good-bye to Lambo.” I had forgotten about that too. Or didn’t want to . One of the two. I stole her only the night before last. I only drove her the once. Yet I felt a real connection to that car. A bond with her mechanical soul. She was more than a car. She was my baby blue. My hot rod honey. I stared out the window over the bright cityscape of a sunny afternoon. It’s time to say goodbye to Lambo.

* * *

Our outing was short-lived. And it turns out I’d never get that goodbye. We went downstairs. Took that long elevator ride down. This time we weren’t silent. We chatted. It was novel. Made the length of descent somewhat less eternal. We got to the car park. Neon was there. Safe and sound. Security devices and anti-approach gizmos at work. Beside her, where Lambo should have accompanied, a blank square of pavement and a collection of shattered glass.

She had been stolen. Lambo was gone. Disappeared. And with her, our plan. Our ticket into space. Any chance to attend the Galactic Crown. Any chance to see Prince…. to inquire about August. I was bummed. Nova was devastated. We went straight back up to her place. No chat in the shaft. Just that familiar silence and an overall sense of minutes crawling by. When we walked through the door I had to quickly signal Cindy to shut up. No telling what that chirpy robotic optimism of hers may have set off in Nova. I wasn’t prepared to find out. Not during her current mood. Nova dimmed the glass. Shunned the daylight. Shunned the day itself. She broke open a brand new bottle of whiskey and crashed on the couch. Slouched like a crumpled manikin. Like a strung-out waster. Switched on the tele. Switched off herself. I didn’t interfere. I was afraid to. I wanted to but didn’t know how to help. How to make things any better. I felt like the whole thing was my fault. Couldn’t reason it that way but felt it to be true. I kept my distance. Plopped down on the foldout chairs. Brushed aside all those sub crumbs. Bogged down, heavy with malaise, I studied a congealed smear of mayonnaise. It looked like cum. I sat in silence and I watched Nova watch T.V. Some infomercial. Vacuums that can clean anything. “Only $19.99. But wait... order NOW and receive a second vacuum FREE. That’s right, completely FREE. Shipping is FREE and all purchases made within the NEXT MINUTE come with a special nozzle adaptor! But wait... there’s MORE!!” And so on and so on. Jesus, who wants that shit? It was only a handful of minutes, that infomercial. Yet it cycled over and over again. It must’ve played a dozen times. Twenty times. It went on and on. Must have been close to an hour. Seemed like fucking forever. Drove me bloody mad. But Nova sat, sipping her whiskey, staring blankly at the screen. I tried to will with my mind the suggestion to turn it off. Turn the channel. Mute it. Do anything. But no luck there... lost in a comatose daze, Nova sat unresponsive. Inattentive. Shrouded by an immense and oppressive disappointment and with it the onset of depression.

The thing reeled on and on. That goddamned fucking vac-uum infomercial. As I said, it drove me bloody mad. It nearly drove me to break my silence. But then it ended. Swiftly. Mercifully. And the next program began after an advert for perfor-mance motor oil. I thought the car-theme product might perk up Nova but on second thought guessed it rather rubbed it in. “Last time on, The Nights of Our Lives...” If Nova didn’t perk, I certainly did. I wasn’t a fan of the show. Soap ain’t my style outside of the shower. But after meeting the star of the show yesterday... being charmed to arousal and well on my way to being victimized by him... I was curious to see his mediocre-at-best performance on screen. ‘Staring Drayke Silverstem as Chad Manning. And Emily Heartwood as Rachel Waters. And now on... The Night’s of Our Lives.’ There he was. Right off the bat. Chad Manning. Drayke Silverstem. Chad was shirtless, kissing Rachel Waters. Emily Heartwood, whoever the fuck that was. It was infidelity, both ways. The family man and the newlywed bride. The two hottest actors among the cast. The drive behind the ratings. Chad and Rachel, cheating behind the backs of their un-suspecting loved ones. Dear Lord! This was drivel! I watched, amused. “But we shouldn’t,” said Rachel. “But we must!” Answered Chad. Then there were some snogging and more shots of Silverstem’s shirtless perfection. Before the cut to the commercial, Chad’s phone rang. It interrupted the hot make-out. It was his wife, of course. She informed Chad that he had forgotten his daughter’s birthday party. “Oh no,” he said to Rachel after hanging up the phone. “What is it, Chad?!” “Oh, Rachel, I’ve gone and done it now! My daughter, Celeste... I’ve missed her

party!” And it cut to commercial. I was oblivious to the merits of whatever toothpaste brand was featured in the ad. My mind went elsewhere. I was having a brainwave. It hit me like a sack of shit bricks when Silverstem had uttered that single word: party. “Nova!” I shouted. She turned around but said nothing. “Turn off the tele, babes. Put away that whiskey.” I think I flashed a heroic pose. “Papa’s got a plan.”

* * *

Nova wasn’t interested. Or may have been if she took me seriously. But she had nothing but doubts. You could see it all over her face. Here I was, Mr. Positive, coming up with an idea. Formulating a plan. A plan to find her brother. Not mine. And Nova couldn’t be fucked to even pretend to care. Pissed me off. Pissed me right off. Rubbed me the wrong damned way. Rubbed me where I don’t want rubbing anyhow. “Look,” I leveled with her. “You want to get off this rock and off-world? Kick some ass in the Galactic Crown?” She returned her attention to The Nights of Our Lives. “Or do you want to jack off and drink whiskey until you’re dumb? Sit around like some brain-dead cunt watching an idiotic bullshit show?” She was moved neither to action nor to response. “Goddammit, Nova!” I shouted. “Do you want to find Au-gust, or do you want to mope around like some useless ass? I’ve got a plan, you dick. So, hear me out!” She turned off the tele. She turned to face me. “You want to find your brother... don’t you, Nova?” That did the trick. She was back from the dead. There was light in her eye. A glint of vitality. “Okay then, Zap.” She stood up and set down the whiskey. “Let’s hear it. Let’s hear the plan.” So I told her over a caterpillar roll and some sweet potato tempura at the Little Kyoto, best sushi in town. I thought it best to get Nova out and away from the

flat. Out and away from the couch, the TV, and the whiskey bottle too. I ordered her some green tea and some tempura of her own. Something with weight to soak up all the booze. Me, I enjoyed an ice-cold tall-can of Sapporo. Little Kyoto was my happy place. “So...” Nova said, nibbling at a golden brown deep-fried treat. “This plan of yours...” It was good to see her showing some interest. To have her back amongst the living. Depressed zombie mode wasn’t some-thing I wanted to get used to. Now to deliver the goods. “I work the graveyard shift, as you know. Or did, anyhow, before I lost my job.” I got the call this morning. Two missed shifts without a word. It was enough to get me canned. “Yeah...” she said. “So what? You’re a night owl. Who cares. Hoot hoot!” She was still a little drunk. “So... what I’m trying to say is I’ve had my run-ins with a fair few night goers. Met a character or two that make a habit to frequent the evenings. Peeps whose late-night routines have some overlap with my own.” She reached over and took without asking a segment of my caterpillar. I didn’t react. “Walking to and from work. Cigarette breaks on the corner. Stops at the late-night venues when I know sleep’s a miss, a write-off for the night. I’ve bumped into my share of creatures of the night. Other dark dwellers and nocturnes.” “You mean vamps?” She asked. Reached for my beer. I let her. It was down to dribbles. “No. Thank the Lord.” “Racist.” “But you’re on the right track.” “That you’re a racist?” “No! About running into vamps.”

Nova shook her head. “Stop talking about your nights out-and-about and get to the fucking point, mate.” “Eat your tempura and shut the hell up,” her whole atti-tude was grinding down my patience. “If you want my point then I’ll give it to you. One of these frequents of the evening I got to know a little bit.” “A lady of the evening?” “No.” “A lady?” “Fuck’s sake! No.” I ordered another tall Sapporo. I needed it. A small platter of sashimi. A refill of green tea for Nova. “His name’s David. David Chen.” “And how does this Donald Chang character fit into your little plan.” I stared at her for a moment. Shook my head. If I wasn’t so damned into her. So bloody smitten... I’d get up and walk. As it remains, I’m entirely into her. Smitten with a capital smitt. So I patiently pursued my point. “David. David Chen fits into our plan because he’s going to get us into the Obsidian Basement.” She sat up in her chair. “Wait. What?” At last, she took me seriously. “Drayke’s place? Silverstem’s underground man-sion?” “That’s right, babes.” “So this Donald guy... he’s a Vamp, is he?” “David.” I corrected. “And no. But he’s obsessed with them. Vamp mad. A bona fide goth. Religious and devout.” “And rich?” “Filthy,” I affirmed the final requisite. “Rich as you like. Works in laser technology. Genius. Bit like your bro. He outfits warships, space stations, satellites... he’s the man behind most planetary defense systems, anti-asteroid precautionary activi-ties, and perhaps most interesting of all... Chen was instrumental in outfitting the Royal Space Fleet’s mecha-units with their laser

swords... before the project was scrapped, of course.” “Boy’s mega-rich.” “Yup.” “And into vamps?” “Chen is a die-hard goth,” I assured. “And he would... die-hard... willingly. If it came from a vampyre neck nibble. The eternal kiss.” “So how do you know this guy?” “Bumped into him on the streets. The wee hours. The city was dead. He was walking in front of me. Dropped something. Didn’t notice. I picked it up and called it to his attention. Well... turns out it’s a deck of cards. Nerd’s game. Magic the Gath-ering. You have to understand, Nova, this game, it’s something people played in the ice age. It’s been out of print, out of style, for a hundred years. So when I told him I dabble he was as surprised to hear it as I was when I picked up his card. We found a pub, shared a drink, and played until sunrise.” “I see.” “His deck of choice, incidentally, is a black vampyre deck.” I grinned. “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” “Forget it,” I dismissed. “Anyways... the friendship grew from there,” I explained. “It’s casual, mind. We’re not at all close. Haven’t seen him in months. But I’ve got his number. Chen’s deep into the vamp scene. He’s bound to attend those bigwig un-dead haps that go down at Drayke’s. He can get us in, no doubt. Into the Obsidian Basement.” “Great!” Nova shouted. Excited. “That’s fantastic. Our problems are well behind us. A vamp party. Splendid.” I grinned. Nodded. Then blushed... realized she spoke with tremendous sarcasm. I had not explained how getting our-selves into the Obsidian Basement would be of any use to getting us out of our predicament. Or out of the solar system for that matter. I hadn’t explained phase two of the plan.

Now rather embarrassed, I wasted no time. Told her the deets and told her them quickly. I explained to Nova, still surly and a little drunk, that if we attend a Gothic ball, or some such vampyre social occasion, and find ourselves present amongst the turnout at the Obsidian Basement…. we can then find a way to deliver a proposition to its proprietor, none other than that soap scum bitch, Drayke Silverstem. “What proposition?” Nova scoffed. “What could we possi-bly offer the man? He has everything. Anyways, how do we even gain an audience with him? He isn’t exactly approachable, Zap. In the Obsidian Basement, among all those vamps and high-goths, he’ll be damn near impossible to flag down, let alone idly chat with about fucking propositions.” “Gaining his audience will be the easiest part of all.” “Are you mental? You’re mental. He’s mental!” That last to the sushi chefs. They smiled and put their hands together. Bowed half a dozen times. They didn’t know what the hell Nova was saying. Just knew she was drunk. Belligerent. That much translated. “All we have to do to get Drayke’s attention is tell him the Neon Queen’s in attendance.” “Meaning me?” “Meaning you, babes.” I explained that Drayke would have been served no small sample of chagrin after the race the two of them had competed in. No pesky portion of shame. Not after the way in which he had lost. In the final seconds, no less. Memories of that Goliath portion of mutant mock duck would have him wishing for a private word with Lady Bright, who, uninvited, had the tenacity and nerve to be at his own social engagement within his own household. It is not a slight to be ignored. “You trying to get me killed?” Nova protested. “Not you, no.” She looked at me in utter confusion. A hint of anger. I had best explain before she burst. “Don’t worry,” I assured her. I made it clear to her that once we gained Silver-stem’s attention our proposition would negate any ill-will or, in any case, any violent intentions directed at us.

“You have yet to divulge any details about this proposition you like to continually speak of. Get to the point, Zap.” “The proposition that we bring to the table… that we lay in front of Drayke…” “Fuck your dramatic pause! Out with it, man!” “His money, to cover your entry fee to attend and partici-pate in the Galactic Crown. Plus transport, plus expenses lead-ing up to and following the race until we return home to Earth.” “You’re mad!” “In return… we allow Drayke to come with us. Be a part of the team. And assist us in any way he can towards getting you to come in first in that race.” “You’re flat-out bonkers, Zap.” “Because Silverstem will know… he will be very aware of the fact… that if you come in first in the Galactic Crown, and if he is officially made part of the team… then he will be within his right to us when we are personally congratulated by Prince himself.” “Holy shit…” It was starting to click for Nova. “And Drayke will get a real shot at revenge. To sort out that festering grievance over that girl. To make amends for whatever flavour of beef he has for Prince. He’ll be face to face with the man. Legit, hard-out opportunity, mate. He won’t say no. He can’t say no. Because the two of them, Silverstem and Prince, are both as close as you can get to being eternal beings. And eternity, while harbouring a grievance, is a long, long fucking time.” Nova stared at me. “Zap,” she said. “That plan… You’re a bloody legend. How’d you come up with it?” “Silverstem himself gave me the idea,” she looked at me in disbelief. “Or rather, Chad Manning.” “Nights of Our Lives…”

“Well, it sure as shit wasn’t that fucking infomercial that gave me the inspiration.” “Right,” Nova said. Her tone and expression far more alert. Far more coherent. “Let’s find this Donald Chang,” she said. “David Chen,” I corrected. “Whatever.” We paid the bill and split.

* * *

So I called up Chen for some catch-up and a game of magic. He was decked out in shades of black, pale make-up, nails coloured in dark varnish. Proper goth. Standard fair. He was eager to play. Eager to socialize. I think people like me served as a much-needed outlet for people like David. A means to chat about non-goth topics. To drop the projection of goth fashion, goth attitude, goth vibes. To let loose. Talk about mundane things. Women. Baseball. What show you’re watching. Nag-ging obligations to assist your aging parents. Whatever. Chen seemed pleased to talk about anything at all it seemed. Any-thing at all, nongoth. So I let him. He filled me in on the latest in lasers. Told me about the women that had come and gone from his life since last we had shared a beer. Told me about his Chihuahua, Anubis, and his recent operation. About his addiction to some online first-person shooting game that’s interfered with both his sleep and his love life. About the lunch, he had the day before last and gave me the highest of recommendations for the Mexican t on 12th Avenue. Dave nattered on and I listened. And ordered us a second round. We busted out the cards. His vampyres laid waste to my goblins. Game after game his well-constructed coordinated combos made short work of my all-

offense approach. To be fair to the gobs my head wasn’t in the game. I was zeroed in on getting me and Nova a ticket into the neighborhood Gothic gala. Into that sub-level horror show beneath the streets. Into Drayke’s place, the Obsidian Basement. All that winning had put Chen in a good mood, I had noticed. And when he ordered us a third round I felt the time was ripe. I deliberately withheld my best card and made a half-assed move. I watched him grin from behind the screen of his fanned-out hand. Our third beer arrived. I struck while the iron was hot. “Davie, babe,” I said. “I’ve met this girl...” Chen lowered his cards. Looked like the giddiest of idiots imaginable. “Ho ho! Zappie, Zap, Zap. Mr. sly on the fly. You dirty dog!” All of that from ‘I’ve met this girl.’ “Yeah,” I said, sheepish. “She’s...” “Gorgeous. Tell me she’s gorgeous!” “She’s gorgeous, Dave.” “Haaaooooo!” He threw back his head and howled. Had someone slipped him an Alpha Wolf? I wondered. “She sounds like my kind of woman!” “Your tastes are as unique as my own,” I said dryly. “Who would have thought... we both like our women gorgeous.” Chen set down his cards. The game forgotten. He laughed and howled anew. The man had a weakness for women. They turned him from the real smart bloke that he was, the leading genius in laser technologies, into a schoolboy simpleton. A right git. A real ass. “So...” Chen leaned in close over the table. “Have you... you know...” “Fucked?” I offered. He giggled. “No, Davie.” He slumped in disappointment. Like a punctured blow-up doll.

“We’re just friends,” I told him, hon-est. “Friends?!” He spat the word as if it tasted of shit. “You’re friends with a gorgeous woman? That’s an awful waste, mate. An awful bloody waste.” “Well,” I said, putting away my cards and pretending to be bored. “Seeing as how we’re only friends. I don’t know... I thought I’d save her for you.” Chen nibbled at his black enameled nails. “For... me?” His overeager excitement was comically fiendish. “Yeah, Davie boy,” I smiled. “Thought I’d introduce you. She’s wild about vampyres.” I lied. “And she’s crazy about Asian men.” I made that up. “She’s a devout goth.” More lies. “And get this...” I leaned in close. “She finds laser technology sexy as hell.” Blatant falsehood. Complete bollocks. I was the corrupt mayor of Fib City. But none of that mattered. Chen was hooked on the notion. Salivating at the thought. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He was near to hyperventilation. His excitement was rife. “Tell me you’re not kidding, Zap. Tell me this girl really exists.” “She exists, alright,” I assured him of the falsehood. “She exists, and she’s here. Right now.” “Here?” Chen looked around. “Now?” “Yup.” I waved her over. Nova had been sitting at the bar. Enjoying a whiskey. Awaiting my signal. “Fuckin’ hell!” Chen whispered as she approached. “That’s the one, huh? She is gorgeous. You said she’s into Asian men? A bit on the masculine side... but a real babe. Oh shit! Here she comes!” “David,” I said when Nova made it over to our table. “Meet Elvira Nightshade.” I had thought the name was putting it on thick, but Nova insisted. I guess she was kind of enjoying her-self. Pretending not to be the bright chaotic spectrum that she was in her natural state. Playing the part of monotone Goth. She had done some shopping to assume the look. Had cast aside her lemon-lime zest. Peeled back the banana leather layers. Replaced them with black and

variations of gray. She wore a wig over that bad bleach job shaped like an ice cream whip. Bangs overhung her forehead in a squid-ink curtain. A dark veil that half hid her bright blue eyes. Lips were coated in a charcoal gloss that accentuated and made sexy the pink of their internal flesh, the whites of her teeth when she coyly bit at them. Somewhere between Gothic princes, biker babe, and ninja shadow warrior, Nova’s style as Elvira Nightshade came out in a mixture of sleek and frills. Skin tight leather and buoyant fishnet lace. The sleek embraced her curves in all the right places. Made her a spectacle of allure. An object of male desire. The frills softened the hard edge sex of it all. Boycotted the practical, formfitting leather. Made a statement of light, almost schoolgirl, shyness. Her footwear topped it off… giant black boots with a definite punk motif. Red laces that tied up half the length of her shin. Little white skulls stamped on the ankles. The whole thing had a bit of a disingenuous look to it. A bit of a cheap Halloween costume vibe. It looked rather like someone pretending to be goth. Which, of course, it was exactly that. But Chen, in his stupor for anything woman, anything vaguely feminine, anything that looked his way for half a heartbeat, didn’t seem to find fault or complaint about Elvira Nightshade in any way. And I couldn’t really blame him. Overlooking what may have been a hasty imperfection to mimic the traditional Gothic essence. I looked at Nova’s kit. It wasn’t really the style I look for in a woman. Not a fashion sense I appreciate. Far from, if I am being frank on the matter. But seeing Nova all gothed out in black, all done up in shades of vamp… made me think twice about my tastes. Made me find value in that necrotic hue. Made me—again, I’m being frank here —flat out horny. Sexed-up. On alert. But I left it to David and his far more genuine Gothic interests. Didn’t want to interfere now that everything was well in place. I left them to it, Nova and Chen. Told them I was out for a smoke. Don’t smoke. But that’s beside the point. I made tracks. Gave them some space. Wandered around the block. Idled away thirty minutes. Took my time doing nothing. I had briefed Nova on the plan. Instructed her on what to say. Told her how to exploit Chen’s weaknesses. Make him do whatever she wanted. Stroke his ego. Stroke his thigh. Never let up on body language that clearly said, “let’s fuck in

the near future.” Gave her a minor education on laser technology. The basics that you can find online or in science articles. Some-thing to work with in conversation. Something to bait in Chen like the sucker we were playing him for. Once he was hooked, it was easy to do the rest. Nova, or rather, Elvira, a certified vampyre enthusiast, would somehow work into conversation if Chen had ever attended any events hosted within the Obsidian Basement. I already knew or had my serious hunches, that Chen was relatively high up in the social stratosphere of religious Gothdom. There was no way he hadn’t frequented the various soirees, festivities, jambo-rees… those all held at the Gothic venue of venues. And as it turns out, I was correct in my assumption. As soon as that much was clear, Elvira made her move. Went in for the kill. Held Dave by the arm. Leaned in close. Begged a hot-breathed whisper into his ear, pleading to be his date at the next event. It had also been my assumption that Chen wouldn’t pause for thought in compliance with Elvira’s request. Here, however, I had misjudged. He gently pushed Nova away. Torn between desire and Gothic law, he sadly explained the firm taboo in place that heavily frowned on the attendance of uninvited guests… individuals who have not received the “eternal kiss,” a certified tattoo, a marking of two red dots upon the neck to symbolize devotion to vampyre kind. A branding of sorts to one’s willingness and eager-ness to receive that kiss in eternal authenticity. It was more or less a stamp that said to others, “I’m in the vampyre club.” I actually knew about this. So did Nova. She does, after all, live in a vamp hood. But I thought Dave’s reputation, his weakness, and thirst for the affections of women, would hold greater gravitational force than the anti-grav of vampyre social taboos. Again, as I stated, I misjudged. The man’s devotion to the undead was not a fickle thing, as it turns out. But Nova and I had thought of a secondary plan to sway good ol’ Davie Chen. It wasn’t exactly foolproof. In fact, it was a bit shit and desperate. But so long as Elvira did her thing. Kept laying on the flirtations and future promises of shared activity beneath the sheets… I think it would work. It had better bloody work. And it did. Thank god. Elvira removed her wig. Worked her fingers through her yellow-blonde hair so it stood up like the lit end of a candle. She explained that she was entirely new to

the goth thing. Trying it out for the first time. That she had only recently been turned on to its charms. Hot-off-the-press, seduced by its allures and eventual promises. Eternal life, superpowers, et cetera, et cetera, blah blah blah. Why so recent? Because she had landed a gig playing a minor role on The Nights of Our Lives. Played as Rachel Waters’ Realtor. Had a scene where she’s showing the house and stumbles upon Rachel and Chad Manning making delicious love. Doing the dirty in the nursery, no less. She diverts the attention of those viewing the house, of course. Sends them on their way. Makes an excuse and cancels the open house. Hot and bothered by what she has witnessed. The Realtor returns to watch Chad and Rachel doing the love-thrust on the baby monitor in the next room. Worked into a further frustra-tion of hot need, the Realtor records a section of the lewd and scandalous behavior, using it to blackmail the two engaged in their affair. Smutty drivel of a television program as it is, the Realtor pressures Rachel and Chad to allow her to in their love games. Refusal to meet her demands and she will reveal all to their families and friends. And so the Realtor played the meat to a Chad Manning and Rachel Waters sandwich. Got busy between the two. Added juice to an already sticky situation. The ratings would sky-rocket. “Wow...” said Chen. Enticed by the image. More so, even, by the fact that she had met Silverstem in the flesh. “I’ll tune in for that one. Definitely.” “It won’t air until the week after next.” “Something to look forward to.” Nova as Elvira as the Realtor on the “Night’s of Our Lives” got to meet Drayke Silverstem, of course. Got to spend some skin-on-skin time with the famous heartthrob vamp. They clicked a bit. Made friends of a sort on set. Got lunch once or twice. “Wait… so you’re like… chummy with the Drayke?” And lies snowballed into further lies. She explained that in the presence of Drayke Silverstem her devotion to vampyrism bloomed overnight. Such was his magnetism. His presence. His charm. Her childhood of Christianity that turned

into an adulthood of atheism had within the week turned into the zealous depths of devoted religious goth. It explained her far-fetched, hodgepodge outfit. Her lack of nuance in Vampyre lore. The absence of mark upon her neck… the tattooed brand of the “eternal kiss.” Yet it also explained her interest in Chen. Her desire to get into the Obsidian Basement. Perhaps most important for Chen, it removed somewhat the would-be taboo of bringing her along to the next big event. She did, after all, know Silverstem personally. So convoluted and complex became the absurd tale that it so too became harder and harder for Chen to separate from reality. More difficult to doubt and dismiss. And with an ex-ploring back-brush of black-enamelled fingers creeping ever upward David’s thigh, Elvira Nightshade threw her weight and shifted things in our favour. She offered to make an introduc-tion. Between Chen and Silverstem himself. Vamp of all vamps. I had just returned to the table. David was drooling with anticipation. The man was a fevered mess of sexually charged suppressed energies and celebrity fandom. More than that. It was religious sanctity. “You can do that?” Chen was startled. “You can actually introduce me to Drayke Silverstem?” Strictly speaking, that wasn’t exactly true. Actually, being strict has nothing to do with it. It simply wasn’t true. A big fat lie. Drayke would have nothing to do with some random goth zealot. Even if he was the king of lasers. It just wasn’t enough. It would be a waste of Silverstem’s time. Beneath his interest. But we had to give Chen something. Had to lay down some sort of bargaining chip for the table. “You bet we can,” I answered for her. “We?” He frowned. “You wouldn’t leave me out now, would you, Chen?” “Zap…” he started to explain. “There are taboos… certain rules in place… I can’t just…” Nova leaned in close. Whispered something in his ear. Gave him a look that

would seduce a nun out of her knickers. Seduce the Pope himself. “Yeah…” he said, compliant. “Yeah, okay Zap. I wouldn’t leave you out.” It had its hiccups. Our plan. But we were in.

OBSIDIAN BASEMENT

We had some time to kill. Four days. Four days until the next big event at the Obsidian Basement. Which didn’t bother me. Suited me fine. I thought we were in for a much longer wait. Four days to kill... nothing to it. Not a problem. But it was. Big time. A big fucking problem... for Nova. She was pulling her hair. Pacing the flat. Cursing and shunning her phone every time it lit up and vibrated. “Who is it?” I asked the first few times. Then didn’t bother. It was the same person calling every time. Same person calling every bloody five minutes. It was, much to Nova’s ever-in-creasing irritation, none other than David Chen. “Oh my fucking god, Zap!” Nova complained. “That laser bastard friend of yours is driving me up the goddamned wall!” She tossed her phone across the room. The fragile device arced across the kitchen and by luck or skill landed safely unharmed onto the sofa. Wedged between two cushions, it vibrated, slightly muffled. “Bugger off, Donald fucking Chang!” I didn’t bother correcting her. It wasn’t the time. With great effort, I also stifled a joke. Unspoken, I privately smiled at the thought… telling Nova that she mised his middle name, too. “I can’t believe you made me play the slut to that freak.” She shivered. “He is so cloying. I can hardly breathe.” “Relax,” I urged. “Davie’s pretty much on the other side of town. You won’t have to see him until the party. You know... the one that we wouldn’t be going to if it weren’t for my friend, that ‘freak.’ The one where we get to meet the Drayke and get a legitimate chance at what really matters... getting out into space. Into the big black. Getting into the Galactic Crown. And right up into Prince’s personal space. Right up in his grill. Which is funny because his grill is actually metal.” She didn’t even smile. “It’s the party, Nova, that begins a chain reaction

of events that may end in getting a clue or a flat-out resolution about where and how your brother is... it’s all worth it, babes. So chill.” The phone vibrated across the room. “Ahhhh!” Nova screamed. “Fuck this.” She reached for her back pocket and produced a pair of funsies. A neon tetra and a solid teal. She’d be smiling soon. “I’m outa here.” She stormed towards the door. “Don’t drive, bub,” I warned. “Not with the funsies in your gut.” She withered. “Do I look like a fuck-tard to you?” “Do you want the truth?” “Dick.” She nearly made it out the door. “Nova!” I called out. She poked her head back in. “What?” “Don’t forget your phone.” I held it up and it vibrated in my hand. “Fuck off.” The door slammed. I smiled. Four days to kill... which I didn’t mind.

* * *

They came and went real fast. Those four days. For me they did, anyways. For Nova, I couldn’t say. She came and went from time to time but she was out and about more often than not. Partying at night. Sleeping at day. She wasn’t going easy on the stims. I can tell you that much. When I did see her she was either riding the high or coming down in a heap. Mile a minute chatter or down and out crash upon the mattress. I was a bit worried, to be honest. But then again, not really. She was just doing her thing. Burning time the best way she knew how.

Nova was a big girl. I’ll leave her alone. If those habits follow her into space after four days... well, then I’ll start to worry. In the meantime, I’ll blow time the way I know how. And mind my own business while I do. That phone of hers kept on ringing. Still wedged behind the cushions. Nova had abandoned it until our waiting was at an end. Couldn’t stand the dozens of calls coming in by the hour. That poor Chen... I picked up once or twice. Told him Nova was out. Unavailable. Told him to ease on the calling. That it was really intense. Really off-putting. Chen was chomping at the bit. Dy-ing to talk to Elvira. Needing to see her. Yearning. Pining. Ach-ing. “Sorry, mate,” I’d tell him. “Sh’s out. Why don’t you rub one out, put an ice pack between your legs, and chill the fuck out?” Best advice I could give. Well, that’s one person whose four days weren’t ing by quickly... But they did for me, as I say. Quick and pleasant. Uncom-monly serene. I hardly left the flat. Using my newly acquired tenancy privileges I took it upon myself to remove the personality inhibitor on Cindy that had been a part of her factory setting. I could have selected a com-plex array of traits for her, from basic and broad to minute and precise in detail, pretty much narrowing down a person-ality of my choice with pinprick accuracy. But I chose to leave Cindy’s progression of self unguided. She would walk the path to find out who she was all on her own. Removing the inhi-bitor allowed her to do this. Which remained the sole act that my hand would have in the matter. During those four quick days, I spent a great deal of time around and in conversation with Cindy. Her servile nature became a great deal more independent. More opinionated. She discovered humour, sarcasm, even mockery. I turned the tele so that her monitor could pick up the feed. We watched some movies, which had scenes that Cindy expressed likes and dislikes for. There were jokes that made her laugh out loud. Dramatic occurrences that moved her to tears, or would have if she had any to shed. Quiet segments that left her bored or antsy. All the while she still retained her eagerness and interest to prepare my meals. Without Nova around with her quick dismissals and apparent hatred for

A.I., I happily obliged. “Yes, Cindy. Please,” I would tell her. “I would love to eat one of your meals.” And it wasn’t a lie to say so. Her meals were top-notch. Sure as shit a hell of a lot better than those fucking subs and slaw from the other night. And so the time ed. I spent those days alone. Those four quick, peaceful days. But alone, truly? No. Not alone. I spent them, happily, with a free-thinking entity. A Gossip Gal with more than just a serial number to make her unique. More than a series of settings to determine what she would be like. Who she is and may someday become. No... I certainly did not spend those four pleasant days alone. I spent them with another being with an individual soul. I am convinced of that. More than ever, after watching Home Alone with her and hearing her make a mockery of Marv as he stepped barefoot onto glass Christmas ornaments. Who could argue, after that, that I spent those days in solitude? After all, I spent them with Cindy. I spent them with my friend. And you know something, too? I think Nova was on to something when she told me Cindy had a crush on me. The way she sometimes said my name. Asked a question. The way she giggled at my bad jokes. I don’t know... maybe I was lonely. Maybe I was desperate. Hell... maybe I’m no better than Chen. But I think my Gossip Gal has the hots for me. But that’s not really the issue. That’s no biggie. Not really. Even if it is the truth. What was more of a spanner in the works, more of a potential fuck in the head, more alarming, perhaps, if I was to be dramatic about it all... well... I think I had a crush on Cindy. I blush to it it. I think I had the hots for my Gossip Gal. So it was with a bit of relief when those four days ended, pleasant though they may have been. It was a welcome change of pace when Nova came home. Busted through the door. Tee shirt and jeans and looking more like a boy than I’d yet seen her. She was stimmed, of course. Ready to rock. “Let’s put this bitch into top gear, el Zaperino!” She shouted over one of my favourite scenes in When Harry Met Sally. “Let’s hit the road and fuck up this vampyre shindig.” She tossed me two funsies. Grape and lemonade. I turned to the tele, quoted

Billy Crystal doing that funny voice, “I’d be proud to partake of your pecan pie.” Threw the pills to the back of my throat and drenched them with an old cup of cold coffee. Felt the grape and lemonade working their magic. I stood up. I shot up. “Let’s move, mother fucker!” I roared. And we left Cindy to finish the movie on her own. “Would you like me to make you a meal?” She began to ask. But the door slammed. Nova and I were gone. We were on our way to pick up Chen, who would bring us to the main event. Lead us to the Obsidian Basement. In the flat, the movie played until the credits rolled and the screen went blank. “I’d be proud to partake of your pecan pie,” Cindy quoted. And then the room went silent.

* * *

We cruised the streets of Troubadour. Made our way across town to meet up with Chen. Driving in Neon Dreams. Hellbent. We doubled the legal limit, our speed off the rails. We quadrupled it, easy, in intoxication. Stimmed up and rocking the road... I guess Nova was a fuck-tard. She and I both. No Billy Ocean to lighten the mood. No Moonlight Sonata to calm our nerves. We let the console sleep easy. Let the audio lay low. We sat in silence, taking in those warm sunset vibes casting an orange glow over the city of poets. The city of shit. Our bloodstreams a manic racetrack of ongoing, oncoming traffic. Bumper to bumper high-speed action. Inside we raged and boiled. The stims were making us gods. Yet we sat on those divine powers. Let them simmer deep within. Disciplined, we kept them from boiling over. We were saving room and saving face. Saving our pent-up octane fever for the mid-night mass to come. We ran a series of red lights and lit up the darkening streets with a splash of neon. We got to Chen’s in one piece. We got there, too, in record time. Nova

parked the Dream in a private alcove and voice-activated a long list of security inputs. Locked up and left on her own, Neon Dreams was laden with fail-safes. A fortress against theft or abuse. Chen came out to greet us. Looked at his watch. Surprised at our arrival. He commended us on our speed. But not our outfits. “Just what in the fuck are you wearing, you two? And just where in the fuck do you think we are going?” He tsk-tsk-tsked. “We’re not going out to the local dive bar, you know?” I had leapt straight from the couch. Watching When Harry Met Sally one moment, high on stims and cruising the road the next. Didn’t exactly have time to doll up. I was in loose-fitting sweats. Faded hooded jumper with my high school name and logo. Moth eaten and ancient, those threads. My trusty wellworn plastic sneakers. I looked like a pizza delivery boy. Not exactly highsociety vampire-friendly attire. Nova was no better suited than I. Not for an upper-crust Gothic ball. She wore a loose-fitted tee shirt, several sizes too large. 7Up logo and full of stains. Coffee or whiskey or curry sauce. Her skinny jeans were white denim and full of rips and tears. She must have been higher than I thought because she wasn’t even wearing any shoes. One sock on the left. Barefoot, emerald painted toes on the right. “Fuck’s sake,” said Chen. “Elvira, is that even you?” Nova shrugged. Not at all apologetic. “Well come on in then,” Chen insisted. “Not sure what I can offer but it will sure as hell be better than this.” He looked us up and down in disgust. He outfitted us as best he could. Did a pretty good job. Kudos to Chen. He had me all done up, Phantom of the Opera-esque. Half mask, half cape... it was a bit half baked, but not half bad. If we were lucky, it would turn only half the heads of those vamps and goths. It would have to do. He didn’t have much for Nova. But Chen was a champ. He made it work. His ex-girlfriend wasn’t a goth. And the ex before the ex had been gone from his life for six months plus. There wasn’t much in the way of women’s clothing lying around.

That suited Nova fine. Literally. Chen showed her his wardrobe, and she naturally gravitated towards his collection of suits for life’s non-goth occasions. Fancy and expensive but a great deal less eccentric than some of the Gothic garb on option, she elected to sport a sleek Armani number. Real slick. And she pulled it off. Looked better on Nova than on Chen, his own tailored clothes. But it was true. He said so himself. And it fit like it was made for her, besides. “Looking good, Elvira.” He told her, impressed. “Call me Nova.” She requested. “Sure,” confusion. “Why?” “It’s my name.” She gave Chen a look that said, “don’t ask, bitch.” He seemed to get that. He stayed quiet, puzzled, and taken aback. I smiled, and took in Nova, Armani’d up from head to toe. Looking handsome. Looking hot. The suit was black, of course. At least that much was in theme with the goths and the vamps. Black jacket, black shirt, black buttons, shoes, and tie. But against all that black a blood-red handkerchief neatly spilled from her breast pocket to form a down-facing triangle. In matching crimson, a pair of ruby crested skulls served as cufflinks. She applied in red and black the geishathemed makeup for her face. The same as when I had first laid eyes on that beautiful stranger sipping her pisco sour in Troubadour square. Again, she made me smile. Just looking at her. In her men’s designer wear and short blonde dollop hair-due... she was as androgynous as she had ever been. But the difference now was I knew her to be a woman. I had seen her baring it all. And to me that boyish figure teetering on the narrow edge of a fence between one of two inconspicuous sexes... to me she was a maiden, fair. A nubile nymph with femininity abound and plenty. But I liked it masked. Her womanhood in question. Her effeminate traits wrapped tight in an Armani suit. I like her as she was. Somewhere in between. Nova’s soul, man or woman, shone bright and beautiful. And that was the attraction. “You are looking good, babes.” I echoed Chen’s praise.

She looked in the full-body mirror. She put her hands through her hair. She tugged at her collar. Adjusted her tie. And nodded. “I’d fuck me,” she assessed. Chen and I nodded. “Yeah,” we both said. “I think you speak for all of us, there.” Even Anubis, David’s chihuahua, barked in apparent agree-ment. “Right,” Nova said. “Let’s ride.”

* * *

Getting to the Obsidian Basement was a bit of a journey, but we got there in the end. We started in Chen’s Mazda MX-5 Spyder. A fancy piece of wheels. Black as an abyss, windows and all. It was flash and totally vroom-worthy. But I found myself somewhat jaded, somewhat spoiled, and unimpressed. I’d recently spent too much time in Neon Dreams. What could compete with that? Still, that Spyder was rad. No slouch on the road. And it moved real good. We got to the edge of the city in damned fine time. It was hardly ten o’clock when we pried open that manhole and descended into the first level of those stinky sewers, those paved shit rivers. Yeah, that’s right. You heard me correct. We went down into those poop puddles beneath the streets. Like I said, it was a bit of a journey getting to that godforsaken vampyre hangout. That mansion dwelling beneath the bowels of ol’ Troub. It was a bit of a trek getting there. A bit of a mish. And a bit of a goddamned head fuck. But we made our way down. Fingers pinching our noses. We made commune with the rats. We walked the shit-strewn avenues of brick. And we did so in reasonably good spirits. And hey! Why not? We were popping pills like Mentos. We were flying high. We were on our way to a party, baby. Yeah... shit up to our ankles and still a smile on our faces. Nova’s fancy shoes in

hand, Armani slacks rolled up. Me, down to my yellowed briefs, pants around my neck like a scarf. Hundreds of Troubadour’s citizen’s digested and discarded meals squishing between my toes. All was jolly. No complaints. And when one would begin to surface from beneath the fecal streams... one of those complaints… whenever a negative thought entered into my mind, Nova was there with a fun-capsule at the ready. A Hoot-and-Holler, a Cactus Flower, or her recent favourite, one of those ever-wild Neon Tetras. The only one who had cause for complaint, who was dragging his feet, who was letting the shit and the stink bring him down, was our seasoned guide, Davie Chen. And get this, the bloke had waders. Fully waterproof, a second skin. Shit proof too. From foot to leg to well above the waist. His com-plaints fell on deaf ears. Poo-poo well caked up onto my bare shins, I didn’t have sympathy to spare. “Levels are higher than I’ve seen them before,” Chen grumbled. “Must be last night’s rain.” “Water ain’t the only thing high.” Nova flashed me a grin and gave me five. Down low. Up HIGH. We laughed in glee. “Fuck’s sake,” David grumbled. But the man was his own worst enemy. He put up a hand in refusal to every pill we pedaled in his direction. He didn’t even look twice at the Jungle Chimp we flashed his way. Fully scoffed at the Candy Floss Dragon. Said he wanted his wits for the vampyre action. A blank slate to start with when the real shit was on offer. So we left that wet blanket to his complaints about the aroma of Troub’s underbelly. About the high tide to her digestive juices. Nothing here to complain about, mate. I took in the sewers, smell and all. Shrugged. Three out of five stars. Within a quarter-hour Davie led us down a small set of winding stairs. In the gloom I would have walked right past it, but our guide was a pro. He knew the scene and he knew it well. With each step down the temperature dropped, the air became more wholesome. Three revolutions down that cork-screw stair and we came out into a cavern less shit-river in aspect. Less man-made.

Where above there had been brick and concrete, metal pipes and manholes, down here there was little but natural rock. Dirt and stagnant water. Amidst the relative quiet there was a quintessential cave soundtrack playing in our ears... a drip, drop, drip, drop echo. And are noses filled with a rich earthy smell, too. Improved, we all agreed, from the smell of shit above. From just within the entrance there was a set of hooks jutting out of the rock. Chen wasted no time. He removed his filthy waders and hung them up beside a long line of others. Thankfully, there was a hose to give them a thorough spray. And more to the point, to give me and Nova the same. We were wet and we were cold. But at least we were clean. Nova rolled down her slacks. I put mine on. We threw back a pill and washed it down with a quaff of cola. We were good to go. We pressed on. We followed a path that had been hewed from the rock, which angled steeply downward into a cold, clear subterra-nean lake. Tiny white fishes with no eyes and translucent scales idled away their lives in eternal darkness. The occa-sional sconce placed intermittently along the way danced with flame. Their yellow light wavered and moved and reflected on the damp, slick walls, casting everchanging eerie shadows. Moody, was the effect. Haunting even. Yet it allowed us to keep to the path, keep to our feet, and keep up with our sure-footed guide. The warm light of the periodic flames softened to a degree those stark and alien surroundings before us. It permitted us to witness the weirdness of that underworld. That sunless, cheerless biome. Stalagmites reached as much as two, even three meters, in places. Those narrow cone-shaped spires jutted well above our heads. And from overhead, in converse symmetry, stalagmites mirrored the likes of their lower dwelling brethren. Down-ward from the ceiling, upward from the floor, reaching, al-most eternally, in a constant effort to embrace and form union. Over the decades, the centuries, a struggle to adhere and as one, a solitary column of calcium deposit. I was bewildered. And high. Bewitched. And buzzed. I declined the next offered funsie. “I’m good.” And I was. I was losing my mind and I was loving it. Lost in the awe of those cavernous digs. Time didn’t matter in here. It was always midnight. Moonless, starless,

cloudless. Certainly sunless. But even so, I knew, it was pushing half eleven. Chen told me as much. Showed me the dim green glow of his digital wristwatch. Pointed its face downward to light the way, assist our footing, as we took one final set of stairs. Oddly enough, one layer deeper within the earth, the temperature shot back up. It wasn’t warm, but that chill had ebbed. Had left the air. Before us was a massive, cavernous dome that seemed to have no bounds. It was a scene of legend. Three to five times the size of a football stadium. Huge as hell. A gargantuan dome. Un-fucking-real. Evidence of campfires dotted the flat rocky field before us. Piles of charred rocks and wisps of gray smoke. Well off to the sides, half-hidden in gloom, temporary makeshift lean-tos had been erected. And lived in? Who knows. Their numbers increased, condensed, and grew larger with the progression of depth into the cave. Far in the distance from the back end of that colossal subterranean space voices and music could faintly be heard. I looked to the source of the far-off sounds and squinted. Waited. My eyes adjusting from the glare of Chen’s torch. And oh my fucking god... there before us, hewn into the rock of the far wall to that mammoth cavity... in all of its mythical magnitude and sinister splendour... a black palace of malicious magnificence, a vast collection of spire on spire, a conglomerate of Gothic glory... there before us, hewn from the cold subterranean earth miles below man’s rightful place under the sun... the vampyre mansion of Troubadourian lore... the home to the heir of Hades, Drake Silverstem... here before us... right before us... the Obsidian Basement at last.

“Like, fucking… wow.” Nova was impressed. “Like… woah.” I agreed. “Welcome to the dark divine, black companions.” Chen was being extra Goth. And why not? He was moved by that hulking mass of malignancy before us. That monster shadow-palace. It rose above us, even as it was, yet far off in the distance. It ate up our line of horizon. Swallowed it whole. Us as well, or so it seemed to me. It was easy to see why Chen was uber-stoked. Why any religious

Goth would be stirred to elation. Me? Yeah, I was in awe. Mega awe. But I’m no damned Goth. Religious or otherwise. So sure, I was wonder struck. No doubt about that. But it had a certain flavor of dread to it all. An acridity that foreshadowed brimstone and fire. It wasn’t nice. I wasn’t feeling the rapture. Still... Drayke’s place was epic. I looked up at what resembled to me the Palace of Agrabah after Jafar becomes sultan. You know, after he gives it its evil makeover. I confess... I was agitated as hell. It was like the Taj Mahal had ditched its whites. Put on its funeral wear. Its evil twin. One of the seven wonders of the underworld. Chen paused in iration. Breathed deep in spiritual fulfillment. Then guided us along the very last leg of our journey. We descended a gentle slope to the rocky flats stretched out before us. Nothing in our way to slow or impede us. Nothing to inhibit us in the final approach to that dark venue. To bar our entrance into the Obsidian Basement. The way was clear. Or so it seemed. But there was one last hindrance. Insignificant, in the end. But not at all pleasant. Dreadful, in fact. I’ve had more than a few nightmares recalling the horror. Woken up in sweats in grotesque recollection. I hesitate to retell the occasion... but I guess it may be cathartic. Here goes... We closed in on the steps leading up to the doors of Silverstem’s fantastical digs. We were at the doorstep, so to speak. At the doorstep, literally. The threshold. A stone’s bloody throw. But all the while we approached from across that rocky plain the lean-tos and shanty establishments closed in on us. Hemmed inward. And wedged us in. In choreographed ambush, a swarm of degenerates spilled out from their hovels to descend on us. Slow and ambling, uncoordinated, ungraceful, limping... it couldn’t really be taken for attack, per se. But it was threatening, nonetheless. They were an unsavory, pitiful bunch. Not many people make me feel like a

king. This lot did. They were wasters, cripples, maniacs, denizens of the dark, froth-mouthed and raving. Insipid and unwell. Invalids. Half-starved, by the looks, and some, half bled... the discarded, used up blood-bags to their divorced vampyre companions. Many bore the brand familiar to every religious goth. Two dots. Red. A bite mark over the neck. The eternal kiss. They were weak with thirst and fever. They were bereft of basic needs, of food and shelter, of sunlight, of fresh air. They were miserable wretches, cast out from the eternal party. Used and abused and bounced from the Basement. Booted from the fun. Fucked raw and left to rot. Some were so skinny their elbows threatened to tear out from their skin. Some were covered in sores and infections, oozing and exuding pus, smells of their own decay. Some were so weak, so debased, reduced, and ruined... It revolted me and broke my heart. They wanted food. They wanted water. They wanted to be bitten. They wanted drugs. They wanted comion. They wanted something. They wanted anything. They needed help in a bad fucking way. And many of them needed it now. But Chen was a picture of cruel, uncaring dismissal. He flaunted his vigor and strength and used it against their weakened demeanor. He kicked and pushed and punished those who ventured too close. He spat curses and phlegm alike. “Make way!” He shouted like he was some fucking noble cunt. “Make way, lowlife fools!” Like he was Prince him-bloody-self. Remind me never to play magic cards with this fuck-face again. “Make-way, I say! You abysmal little shits!” And they did. They made fucking way. And in a hurry. Poor creatures. They were terrified. Even of a skinny bastard like Chen. They were shaken straight out of their boots. Those that had any. Most just shook. I gave the last half of my cola to a girl whose ribs were sharply protruding from her naked torso. It’s all I had on me. She slurped the can like it was the cup of fucking life. She hardly got a drop-in before others around her attacked her and pried the beverage out of her grip. It fell to the floor, wasted. Half a dozen wretches fell to their knees to lick what they could of the sweet, soaked earth. “Don’t encourage them,” David said, all haughtily-like and up on a pedestal. “Don’t feed the rats. They’ll just come back in greater swarms.”

I glared at the man. Wrote him off entirely. A complete and total cock. “I’ve seen rats, mate,” I told him, thinking of Francis McCurdy and his cheese wheels. “This lot ain’t rats. They’re people. People, like you and me.” “Pshhh,” Chen scoffed, rude and dismissive. “Speak for yourself, buddy. They ain’t like me.” I fingered Big Blue from under my Phantom of the Opera half-cape. I resisted the urge to blow that arrogant fuck’s brains from his big head. To give those “rats” some fresh meat to keep them going for another week. “You’re right, Davie,” I said, real dangerous and fuck-with-me-if-you-dare. “They ain’t like you. They ain’t a turgid, sniveling little goth cunt. They ain’t someone’s festering piece of discarded seconds. They ain’t a pair of pesky bitch-tits flapping about in an irritant way. They ain’t you,” I emphasized. “You fucking said it, mate.” Chen turned to face me. Saw that my anger was far greater than his own. Backed down. Chuckled even. Real nervous. And blushed, a defeated worm. “Make yourself useful, Chen,” I suggested. “Lead on. We’re almost there. And do shut the fuck up the rest of the way. Your stupid little voice is irksome. Let’s put it on ice, eh?” Nova looked at me from behind Chen’s back. Amused, she stifled her laughter and mouthed in silence, “pesky bitch-tits?!” Then her laugh became somewhat audible. I laughed too. Chen was livid. Pissed to high heaven. But he obeyed. He led us up those dark basalt steps to the huge double doors to Silverstem’s manor. Surveillance studied us in a hum of elec-tronic assessment. Chen made a series of hand signals. A light flashed green. Acceptance. We were in. The doors opened inward, revealed a glimpse of vampyre high society, of Gothic glamour. Okay... now I was ready for that last funsie. Nova popped a T-Rex. I swallowed an Ancient Hymn. We were skirting death in that high of all highs. We were ready for anything. We were ready to party. And we walked forward. Into the Obsidian Basement.

Music blared. And not of the kind I might have expected from what I considered to be a highbrow, high-society event. No live piano. No string quartet. No champagne-sipping back-ground soundtrack. It was house. House with an edge. An angry 4/4 beat hammering away endless, repetitive. A battering ram on its listener’s eardrums. Synthesized bass line. Offbeat high-hat. Hypnotic but chaotic. The DJ was bent over his gear. Bad posture, bobbing his head to the beat. His face was lost in a cascade of dreads. He tweaked and fiddled with electronic boxes and dials. Pale hands with long nails twisting nobs just so, a tease of a lover’s nipple. He punched a button that cued a change in the music. A woman wailed more than sang along. Mournful. Full of lament. Full of despair. It carried a middle eastern theme throughout. It was something of a cross between an acid trip dance and the call to prayer. It was fucking awful. And it wasn’t just loud. It was assailing. Downright bloody deafening. But the crowd loved it. A sardine shoal of goths and vamps filled the high-vaulted Victorian dance floor. Shoulder to shoulder, they danced and rubbed and caroused in one giant drugged-up sweaty swarm. The Goths were high on funsies and juice and bloodthemed cocktails. The vamps were high on the blood of the goths. Highest of all were those that had been chosen as suitable prey, that had been drunk past recovery. Spiritually elated, they’d die soon enough. But in the meantime, they enjoyed that euphoric fever. They retained that minuscule chance to become what they worship. To become another vamp. Red and blue lights strobed in rhythm to the beat. Pale faces reflected the colours. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. For a moment I thought the cops were busting the t. I shook my head. Silly fuck… No way the police could make it. Just how in the world would those piglets get their cars down those spiral steps? Through those rivers of shit? No poo-poo for the po-po. Chen disappeared into the throng. Didn’t waste any time. He rubbed up against a girl that trickled crimson down her snow-white neck. He gave her a good grind,

to the beat. Pelvic thrusts that didn’t hold back. He kept it up until she fell to the floor. ed out. ed out cold. I looked on in horror. Chen noticed and came over. Leaned close and shouted into my ear so I could hear above that wretched music. “It’s just a nibble,” he yelled. “Play bite. She’s not dead. Not gonna die. She’s not that lucky. She’ll come to. An hour. Maybe two.” I nodded, not wishing to lose my voice shouting to that low life. He smiled. Returned to the crowd. I suddenly loathed Chen with a curious ion. I felt sick that I even knew him. The girl that had collapsed was dragged by the arm by some hulking goth with a myriad of face tattoos and piercings. He found a suitable corner and stripped her, waist down. I turned my head. I knew where that was going. Right... note to self… do not out. My mind turned to Nova. I went rigid. Went paranoid. Went into protection mode. My high had gone to a place that wasn’t nice. Wasn’t savoury. It took me to the top, showed me the view, and as it turns out the view was real shit. And speaking of shit, I was losing mine. I looked around. I had lost Nova, too. I panicked. Stumbled around. Bumped into one goth after the other. Each one as pale and grim as the next. The occa-sional vampyre would surface in the crowd. Assess me with contempt or disinterest. I wasn’t a goth, so that suited me fine. Where’s Nova? Boom-chick. Boom-chick. Boom-chick. The music was driving me insane. Driving me up the fucking wall. Not even Ancient Hymn, coursing in my veins, could sway my brain to accept its noise as pleasant. It was downright ugly. And fucking with my calm. Someone’s dancing sent a shoulder into my chin. I stum-bled. Cursed. Glared at no one in particular. Blamed all those dark-souled fucks. The lot of those emo pricks. The DJ spun a new track. It was worse than the first. Louder. Faster. Where the hell is Nova?

Everyone was manic with rave waves. Joyous and violent all at once. I saw Chen making out with the big guy with the tats and piercings. Pashing wet and sloppy. The girl who had been used in the corner had come back to life. She danced and screamed and ed the throng. She remained nude from waist to floor. Didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t seem to care. My head spun. A beautiful girl threw herself at me. Kissed me. Groped me. I went with it because my baser needs told me it was awesome. But a more desperate need resurfaced to the top. I pushed myself free. Where is Nova!? The blue and red lights were giving me a goddamned aneurysm. The music was a bolt drilling into my brain. The crowd was an irksome heap entirely in my way. Someone vomited on my shoes. Chen grabbed my ass. The DJ began some new atrocity. I lost my shit. “WHERE THE FUCK IS NOVA?!” I shouted as loud as my lungs would allow. No one heard me. No one cared. But none of that mattered. I suddenly saw her. Far end of the room, on the very edge of the dance action. There she was. And she was okay. My body went lax. I breathed deep the air rich in CO2 and rank with sweat. My heart slowed and my mind returned. Nova was cool as a cucumber. Composed and badass. Sleek and sharp, done up in her Armani. Blonde and fresh, she stood out from the rest. I thought about my first impression of her in Paladin Square. There’s something about Nova. She stands out in a crowd. Here, all these goths in their graveyard garb, she positively shown. Like a bright light reflected on black ink. Like a beacon in the dark. And I recalled my mantra. Follow the beacon. I did just that. Nova edged towards an ornate door, dark shapes and ominous critters carved into the wood. She slipped on through. Disappeared into the next room. I crossed the dance floor. Left that shit show for greener pastures. I tailed my quarry. ed through the fancy door.

And I basked in the light. Let its brilliance wash over me and cleanse me of all that dark, that turgid gloom. I had reached the beacon. I was back with Nova Bright.

But we weren’t alone. Cats. Not just a couple, either. Not half a dozen. Not even two dozen. But—now get this—fifty. Fifty fucking cats. No less. I mean, I didn’t count. I didn’t sit there and tally them up. Would have been too damned hard, in any case. They were moving around, lots of them. And they were black. Not just mostly black. Not just most of them. They were all black. All of them. But even without a proper headcount, it was easy to tell. Fifty. Easy. There were definitely that many. Probably more. “Jesus,” I said. “Yeah,” Nova agreed. “It’s just like that musical...” I considered my outfit. Half mask and all. “Phantom of the Opera?” “No,” she said. “Cats.” We looked at each other. Then looked at the cats. We burst into laughter. “It’s just like it,” I agreed. All those cats... I recalled being told the Obsidian Basement homed one thousand of them. Here, fifty or sixty, in the relatively small room, they were everywhere. All over the floor, all over the furniture, all over the arched windows looking out over the cavern and its dire township of degenerates. They were all over. All over, full stop. All those cats... I was surprised to find no trace whatsoever of a single litter box.

Where they all shat, where they all pissed... that’s a mystery I’ll have to live with unsolved. But the place didn’t smell. And that, in the very least, impressed me. “I love cats,” Nova opined, petting the nearest one. “Who doesn’t?” I asked. “Cats rule.” We took stock of the room. Our new surroundings. Looked beyond the cats to assess the environment. We were in some sort of study. Shelves full of books from floor to ceiling. Writing desk and chair, feathered quill, pot of ink. Sheaf of papers, yellowed and textured. Everything lit in the dim flicker of candlelight. The open flames... all those cats about... bloody fire hazard if you ask me. But no one did. So I shut my mouth. No computer at the desk. No laptop. No electronic devices of any kind. It was, appropriate to vampyre theme, antiquated. Victorian. Gothic. The modern world and all its ugliness was left in the room we had just left behind us. The faint metronome of bass rattled the floorboards to remind us of the party. But all else here was tranquil. Pleasant. Provided you weren’t allergic to cats. A beautiful woman emerged in the corner. By what means she had entered was anyone’s guess. I hadn’t a clue. One moment Nova and I were alone. Well, alone with fifty-odd cats. The next moment, a drop-dead gorgeous woman accompanied us. And she was... dropdead gorgeous, gorgeous, and dead. She was a vamp. No doubt about it. “Hello,” she greeted us. Her voice was rich and low and super sexy. Her gaze was playful. Menacing. Full of life. Funny, that. “Hi.” I kept it simple. “Yo.” Nova nodded upward. She floated towards us. Or seemed to. Levitating an inch or two off the ground. Her long black skirt concealed any chance to confirm. But the floorboards didn’t creak. Which was unique to her movements among the three of us present. “Strayed from the flock, I see,” she smiled. Flashed a set of immaculate whites, carnivorous canines gleaming. “Are you gentlemen lost?” She asked.

“I’m no gentleman,” Nova answered, hands on hips. She, in the least, was not afraid. “Oh?” The vampyre hottie playfully intoned. “What then? A scoundrel, perhaps?” “A woman.” The vamp lady’s slow approach of levitation halted. She paused. Studied Nova. Sniffed the air like a dog. “Of course.” She smiled, showing off those fangs with purpose. “And a pretty one, despite that masculine air. I should have known.” She sniffed again. “It’s all these cats... they masked the scent.” She was looking at us like she was looking at a plate of fries. Like she was hungry and about to eat us. “And you,” she said to me. “No need to mask your smell... you’ve gone and masked your face!” She laughed. “Um... yeah.” I chuckled. Awkward. Nervous. Scared. She must have sensed my fear. Because she looked right at me, cocked her head, smiled all reassuring and condescending. “No need to be afraid, little man,” she told me. Little man? Bitch. “Besides,” she added. “You’re not my type.” She turned to Nova. Ran her wet tongue slowly across her top lip. Put out some strong sexual projection. “You, on the other hand...” she closed the gap between them. Blink of an eye. Fast as hell. She leaned in close, twirled Nova’s tie between pale fingers. Pulled it to draw her in close. Their faces were inches apart. Eye to eye. “You are a rather delicious morsel. I find you much more to my taste.” I was trembling. Part in fear for Nova’s safety. Part in heated arousal. Those ladies were both to my taste. And the image was driving me wild. Nova’s hands remained on her hips. Her demeanor, unperturbed and calm. She looked that vamp bitch straight in the eye and dished out a good dose of tude. Some serious sass. “Yeah, well, I can’t blame you for your good taste, leech. But my own good taste ain’t digging your style. Not feeling your look. In short, I’m not interested.” She shrugged. “All I can really offer you is a kind fuck off.” She smiled cheerily. “So... yeah. Fuck off.”

There was a pause that probably seemed a lot longer than it actually was. That seemed to endure for eternity. I held my breath, so it couldn’t have been more than a minute. And probably a great deal less. But it was long enough. That pause. Made me break out in a sweat. Standing there, awaiting whatever shit-storm conse-quence was about to strike. In that short eternal space of quiet, the two of them stared each other down. Nova, Armani’d up. Cocksure and crude. Blonde quiff and dripping insolence. Her baby blues in dead-lock with the angry lustrous brown that glared with deadly threat. The high-society vamp, dolled up in fancy black. Form-fitting where it counts, revealing the swells and curves of sexual allure. Pale dead flesh soft as silk and sexy besides, even if cold to the touch. An upper-crust seductress. A cold, necrotic nymph. Looking at the two, like the sun and the moon, they could scarcely be any more different. Yet between them, I could not choose which one I’d rather fuck. Men are like that, I guess. Or I am, in any case. Here I was, in the thick of a real tense and dangerous moment, holding my breath in anticipation and dread, yet I find room for erotic would-ifs and who-would-you-rathers. To be fair, those two were exceptionally hot. In the end, I chose Nova. Just when I arrived at my wit’s end, when I could no longer hold my breath for yet another second, the door came crashing inward. That wretched house music came spilling through the aperture. Grotesque and tasteless. Loud as hell. Twenty to thirty cats stirred from their calm, recumbent posture. We all looked to the idiot who stumbled in. Chen. Looking around and acting frantic. “Close the bloody door, man.” The vampyre lady accosted. Chen blinked and bumbled around. Closed the door at last. The relative silence returned. The cats found new spots to nap. To sit and groom themselves. The tension was gone. Chen, the fucking idiot, had saved the day. He looked around the room, bewildered. Sweaty from the drugs and the dancing and the cloying hot bodies. He caught his breath. “I finally found you,” he panted. “You disappeared on me.” “Who in the hell is this?” The vampyre lady asked me specifically. I could tell,

somehow, even though she was still engaged in a staring contest with Nova. “Uh... a friend, I guess.” It rubbed me the wrong way. Calling that dirtbag a friend. “And who is this friend?” She asked. “He’s even less inter-esting than you.” “Gee... thanks,” I said. “My name is David Chen,” he answered for himself. “Or, if you prefer, Damien Noir,” he bowed. “Damien Noir,” she echoed in disgust. “You lowlife goths. I’ll stick with David.” She paused for thought. “David Chen... you’re that laser guy, aren’t you?” “I am honored you are aware of my existence,” Chen grov-elled. “And I am humbled by your presence, Lady Strange.” “Lady Strange? That’s a strange name.” Nova was still dishing out some serious tude. “And this is a strange trio of fools I find in Lord Silverstem’s study. What leads you astray from the festivities? You two,” she motioned first to Nova, next to me. “You don’t even bear the brand. The eternal kiss. How is it you are even here, I wonder?” Nova and I remained silent. So Chen chimed in. “I brought them, my Lady.” “That is in direct dereliction of divine Gothic creed,” she lectured. “Bringing these two here… a complete and utter dis-regard for the laws we’ve firmly set in place. An open act of defiance and a flagrant breach of strictly forbidden taboos.” She did that floating thing. Hovered in Chen’s direction. “What possessed you to abandon your loyalties to the vampyre divine? And why, moreover, should I not kill you where you stand?” “It’s not what it seems, Lady Strange.” Chen was in tears. “Does it seem like I’m about to rip off your fucking head?” She asked. “That’s how it seems to me.”

“But they know Drayke,” he squirmed. “Lord Silverstem, I mean. They know him personally. Well… she does, anyhow.” Lady Strange looked over at Nova. Assessed her anew. “Oh?” She queried. “Is that so?” “They were going to introduce me, your eternal worship,” Chen told her. “Introduce me to Drayke himself.” “I see,” she said, but not at all like she actually did. Like she believed any of that drivel. Only Chen, himself, was duped. Poor idiot. It had been part of our plan to ditch him after his use had expired. “And who, esteemed friends, do I have the honour to escort to the Drayke? If indeed, of course, you are truly his acquaintances.” “Look, strange lady,” Nova began. “It’s Lady Strange,” Chen corrected. “Whatever,” she rolled her eyes. “Look, stranger, vampyre lady, whatever and whoever the fuck you are. Don’t care, by the way. I don’t know Drayke. Not really. But I race with him. Or have recently. Kicked his ass, too. Sent him spinning. Left him to sit out on the sidelines. I watched it in the rearview mirror. It was a beautiful sight. Hilarious.” “That must make you…” Lady Strange started. “The best damned race car driver you’ve ever met,” Nova finished. “Nova Bright,” Lady Strange smiled. “The one and only.” “Well, well, well…” the vamp girl was no longer angry. Even in the face of Nova’s extreme insolence. She was enjoying herself. Amused. Yet she retained that menacing edge. I hadn’t relaxed. Not by a long shot. I just sat there shitting in my pants. Terrified but entranced. It was like the season finale to the Night’s of Our Lives. Mega drama. I watched it unfold. “So, you’re August Bright’s twin sister?”

“The better half of the litter.” “And you have connections, then, to Prince himself?” “No,” Nova said truthfully. “Not really. Not at all. That would be my brother. He has connections to the Astro King. But I have connections to my brother. So in a pinch, sure, I sort of have connections to the big man in the stars. And that’s actually what this is all about.” “Your connections to Prince?” “Not exactly,” Nova said. “But making with Prince.” “How?” She asked. “Through your brother?” “Not for you to know,” Nova said flatly. “It’s for the Drayke. We want to see the Drayke.” She studied us each in turn. Took her time. Again, those prolonged silences. They did my head in. Wracked my nerves. We were out of funsies, probably for the best. But I fancied one or two right then. At length, Lady Strange spoke. She addressed Nova. “Last time you saw Lord Silverstem…” “Like I said… in my rearview mirror. When I crossed the finish line. Left that fucker in the dust.” “Exactly…” She smiled a wicked smile. “Drayke won’t likely be all that pleased to see you. In fact,” and now her grin became positively demonic. “He may just decide to eat you alive.” I gulped. Nova smirked. “He’d do better in next year’s race if he did. After all, there’s no way in hell a dumb fuck slowpoke like him could compete with me and Neon Dreams.” “Yet you still wish to have audience with him?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I do. And I’ll tell you why, strange lady.” “Okay… why’s that?” “Because I got a deal for the Drayke that will make his limp, coldcock rise from the dead he’ll be so excited.” “More excited than the prospect of drinking you dry? Feeding the scraps of your flesh to his Thirst. I know he’d relish the deed.” “More than that,” Nova said with absolute confidence. “I want to offer that halfrate soap opera bitch something he can’t refuse,” she grinned in a roguish manner. “Something he just wouldn’t—couldn’t— up. I want to offer him Prince on a platter.” “Right,” said Lady Strange. “Come this way, if you please.” “Where are we going?” Asked Chen. “I’m taking you to Drayke Silverstem, of course.”

* * *

We were led through a series of antiquated rooms, down medieval hallways, across outmoded courtyards. Suits of armour. Coat of arms. Old and ugly portraits of rich people with unsmiling faces. Ancient handcrafted furniture. None of that IKEA, build-it-yourself, bullshit. Everything lit by wall candle, chandelier, and torch. This wasn’t your modern faux old-fashioned. It wasn’t an in-theme recent build. No patina palace, this. The Obsidian Basement was as old as Troubadour itself. Old as the poet who founded its establishment, who molded its origin, who kickstarted its foundation. Old as the dirt, as they say. A drafty, nasty, cobwebby, Halloween sort of digs. Perfect for a vampyre demon or an irksome spirit with a grudge. For me? Not so much. I’d sooner be back

above the earth, fifty-seven floors skyward, a Gossip Gal and a Netflix at the ready. I’m just a regular bloke from the slums of ol’ Troub. A creature comforts sort of guy. Not so much a creature of the dark abyss. Not a vampyre with an inheritance of kings. Not some sniveling Goth. Paint me mundane, but right about then I fancied a 9:00 to 5:00 job, commute and all, wife and kids, dog, white picket fucking fence. The Troubadourian Dream. Okay, maybe not. I’d settle for a simple place to crash, a local dive bar with cheap drinks, weekends of casual drug use, and a girl who doesn’t cheat on me more than I do her. Point is, this old haunted house was creeping me out. I wanted to get this business out of the way. I wanted to get the hell out. I can’t believe this was all my idea... “Hey, Zap.” It was Chen. We trailed Lady Strange, who lead us throughout the vast labyrinthine manor. “What?” I had little patience for this guy. “You know who she is, right?” He whispered. “Huh? Who? Lady Strange? Yeah, she’s... well, she’s Lady Strange.” “Strange lady,” Nova added. “That too,” I agreed. “She’s Eliza Strange.” He said it like it meant something. It meant nothing to me. “Okay...” “Sister to Lilith Strange.” Again, like it mattered. “Look, Chen,” I said, irritated. “I’m not all that interested in your Goth fan-boy horseshit. These vampyre celebrities... I could give two fucks, if I were to be generous. But I’m not in a generous mood. So save the Transylvania trivia for some pale-faced, black-clad fucker who cares. Cause me? I sure don’t.” “Wait...” Nova, to my surprise, showed a great deal more interest in the subject. “Lilith Strange... that’s familiar. Is she... is she the one that...”

“Silence,” Lady Strange commanded. We arrived at an archway and portcullis that dwarfed our statures to miniature. “Lord Drayke awaits within.” Nova leaned over close and whispered quietly so only I could hear. “Lilith Strange,” she said. I tried my best to ignore the intimacy of her hot breath upon my neck “She’s the girl. The one Prince whisked away.” “Silverstem’s grievance...” I suddenly realized. I had spo-ken too loudly. “Hush!” Eliza commanded. The portcullis rose, groaning, slowly upward on its massive rusty chains. She motioned us forward. “Lord Silverstem awaits.”

And so he did. All grand and epic. All flash, and in style. He sat at the far end of an over-thetop, cathedral-sized, throne room. The throne itself, carved from what once had been a massive obsidian block, had been worked and chiseled down into the basic substructure of a chair. Elevated upon a trio of lofty steps the throne was designed for its occupant to look down on his audience. Detailed carvings and ornate artistry had been ap-plied with master craft, creating the overall effect of a proud and colossal feline. Mid roar, ivory fangs polished, it offered a semblance of predatory intent. Needless to say, the cat was black. And there he was. The man himself. Sitting in that dreaded sphinx-like, pussy cat’s lap. In all his grand and glorious pre-sence... the Lord of the manor, vampyre of the hour. Ladies and gentlemen... Drayke Silverstem. “Well, well, well...” He surveyed us in turn, looking down from his seat on high. He was gorgeous as ever. Porcelain white, flawless and unmarred, immaculate and effeminate. A pretty work of art. Yet dashing and manly, robust in turn. He struck a striking, handsome figure. He smirked and smiled, amused by our presence. Even when lording over us, full of evil intent and malice, the guy was beautiful to behold. Long and luxuriant ringlets spiraled down in coal-black curlicues to rest upon his shoulders. To spill down his well-proportioned chest. He sported a nearly black, dark gray velvet coat rolled up in cuffs, white lace

frill spilling from wrist and collar. It contrasted something wild with his skinny jeans and ankle-high platform canvas shoes. Part Elizabethan, part glam-rock, goth punk, he looked like a fashionably loud gay space pirate. And amazingly so, he looked rather stunning while he pulled it off. On anyone else I’d be laughing. Cringing. On the Drayke, as it was, I was internally applauding. Fully impressed. Feeling drab by comparison. “If it isn’t Speed Racer herself,” he remarked when his gaze traveled over Nova. “Bold and daring and oh-so-stupid. To think you’d come here. To seek me out, no less.” He beamed in mischievous joy. “Oh, tonight shall be most enjoyable. Most enjoyable, indeed.” “The pleasure’s all yours, whitey.” Nova stuck out her tongue. Drayke’s assessment fell to me. “And who do we have behind that ghostly mask? Does the Phantom know that by coming here, to me, he’s ventured ‘past the point of no re-turn.’” He sang those last words, in reference to Phantom of the Opera. I threw it back in his face. “Well, what can I say? Your DJ sucked. I couldn’t stand that awful ‘music of the night.’” Silverstem laughed. “Spirited! That’s good! You’ll need it when the torture begins.” I gulped. Shivered. And sweat. Whatever trace of funsie remained in my bloodstream was countered by the fear and threat that assailed me. Drayke must have felt that my terror was rife. He exploited it. Cruel vamp bastard that he is. “I you,” he smiled playfully. Playfully, like a cat having fun with a mouse. “The little fellow from the Silver Halo. The one who wishes to be my next co-pilot. To sit shottie by my side. To feed the Thirst.” I cringed to recall that monstrous engine. “You can be my bloody mary, baby. My next cocktail. I’ll slake my thirst on your soul. And speaking of cocks and tails... I’ll give you mine in yours. You’ll be my next little pet. Now doesn’t that sound nice?” And his eyes did a little reptilian flicker. A sudden, instantaneous shutter of something pale. It was too quick to assess. Way too fast, too subtle to describe. But whatever he did had me on my knees. Had me prostrating in loving worship.

Had me begging for his approval. I’d had my knickers charmed plum off my pretty little fanny. I had been bewitched by vamp magic. Seduced and enthralled. Slave to conjured inhibitions. I’d been made into Drayke’s little bitch. Then the back of my head erupted in sudden, sharp pain. I came to my senses. I picked myself up. “Fuck you, Drayke,” I said to the vamp on his high chair. “Thanks, babes,” I said to Nova. She had delivered the slap that had delivered my senses. I was free from vampyric charm. The Lord on his throne looked last upon Chen. For the first time he did not look amused. “And who is this one?” He de-manded. His tone had turned sour. “Damien Noir, if it pleases your eternal worship,” Chen answered. “I am deeply humbled to breath the air you exhale.” “Seriously,” Drayke put up his hands in disgust. “Who is this clown?” “David Chen,” Eliza Strange revealed to him. “What? The laser guy?” “That’s correct, Lord Drayke.” She confirmed “Eliza, my dear...” he fretted, ignoring Chen wholesale. “Why on earth would you display this unsavoury fool before me? His very presence sullies the throne room.” Eliza shrugged. “He accompanied the racer girl and the man in the mask. Went on about how he was eager to meet you. He bears the mark... I presume it is his desire to receive the eternal kiss.” “What?” He asked in ridicule. “Give this simpering heap of refuse the gift of eternity?” He pointed a long pale finger at Chen. “Make that guy vampyre?” Again, Eliza shrugged. “I assume that is his wish. Isn’t that every Goth’s wish?” “Right,” Silverstem shook his head in disgust. “Someone give this man the eternity he deserves.”

A pair of shadows emerged from behind the throne. They shot like two arrows, assassin fast, and ed by on either side of Nova and myself. They descended on Chen. He was in tears. Elated. Elevated. Frothing a spiritual foam. He bared his neck. Awaited the gift. “Oh, thank you, eternal Lord! In death I shall offer you my most devoted and humble…” His words were cut off. And so was his head. Chen’s body slumped to the floor. His head rolled to my ankles, its expression one of utter joy. I kicked it in revulsion. Drayke laughed heartily. The pair of dark figures retreated with their shadow blades to sulk once again behind the throne of their Lord and master. “Listen carefully, now,” Silverstem continued to chuckle. “I offered the eternity that he deserved. Not the eternity that he desired.” Chen’s red-black blood oozed onto my shoes. His head somewhere off to the side. It beamed, super happy. Fuck’s sake. This just got real. I blanched and swayed. I dry heaved once or twice. Next, genuine vomit. It mixed with the blood at my feet. Pooled in a sick mixture of heinous brew. Keeping my cool was out the window. I struggled to keep my feet. Breathe man. Breathe. I managed to regain my calm. I grabbed a set of keys from the inside jacket pocket of a headless Chen. He didn’t object. That wicked Mazda MX-5 Spyder wouldn’t do a dead man any good. I might be dead myself in a moment, but if I live through this horror, I couldn’t let those wheels go to waste. Chen would want it this way. At least that’s what I told myself as I stashed away the keys. I was still mourning Lambo. This would help me cope. Nova was chill. Nerves of steel. Badass to the end. Hardcore throughout. “We didn’t come here to juggle the severed heads of morons, Draykie. We came to offer you a proposition. To make you a deal.” “What could you possibly offer me, Nova Bright? Your hand in marriage? Worthless. I’d sooner take your head than your hand. Perhaps you’d offer Neon

Dreams, herself? Look at how you react when I even suggest such a thing! I know you’d never dare. So come then, let’s get to the chase. And I do not refer to racing when I say so. Let’s get to the point. What could the Neon Queen have to offer the Dark Lord of Obsidian? What can Lady Bright possibly offer of value to the Grand Heir of Hades?” He leaned forward on his throne, balancing between amusement, curiosity, and annoyance. “And perhaps more to the point… what is it you want from me?” So we gave the guy our schtick. Told him the plan. How we were in a bind, needed some dough. Needed some transport. Needed the golden fucking ticket. Reminded him that if Nova wins the Galactic Crown it meant some face time with Prince himself. Made it clear that if Drayke had our back we’d include him in the celebrity meet-up. Give him a one on one with the Astro King himself. That big boy in the stars. The deal, in short… Drayke’s money for a shot at revenge. A chance to make right a royal grievance. The cost of the fee, the transport, the food, the amenities… it was nothing to a guy like Silverstem. Pocket change. Pennies. A legitimate chance to exact revenge on his arch-nemesis, an otherwise untouchable man of position, a man who had dished out foul play regarding someone that he loved… everything. Drayke jumped down from the high seat of his throne, agile as one of his thousand black cats. “You drive a hard bargain,” He told us, floating menacingly nearby. He paused directly in front of our faces. “So…”

And smiled. “When do we leave?”

ORBIT

We were onboard the Arachnid Husk, Drayke’s spaceship. Me, Nova, Drayke, Neon Dreams, even Cindy. Drayke had allowed us to install her onboard, at my request. We orbited planet Earth. One happy family. “Fuck off, will you!” Nova screamed from down the corridor. Well…. not entirely happy. But we were settling in nicely. The Husk made a decent home. Unlike the Obsidian Basement, she had all the modern amenities. No cobwebs and candlelight. Clean, sleek facilities. Kitchen, toilets, showers, all polished and fitted with easy-to-function parts. Self-cleaning nanobots took care of most of the work. Microscopic and unseen, the effect of their labour seemed like a magical spell. Made life easy. Even lazy, at times. Tasks and chores where the nanobots were inhibited by their size, Macrodroids were employed to happily pick up the slack. Some of them had partially equipped or even full personality settings. One of the kitchen droids would frequently offer to make me a meal. I would politely decline. I told him I reserved that job, especially for Cindy. The ship was equipped throughout with atmosphere and air temperature control for optimal comfort and good health. Adjustable by individual room or area to best suit its patrons, the Husk left little cause for complaint or need. Water on board was recycled through a complex filtration system that uses forward osmosis. Big shit gets caught up in the filter. Small shit es through. Or something like that. Drayke explained it to me. Went over my head, to be honest. The water was clear. Didn’t smell. That’s all that matters to me. I’ve recently waded through the sewers of Troubadour... I’m easy. We each had our own digs. Each to our own. Everyone, that is, with exception of Cindy. She remained in the Arach-nid’s mainframe computer. But I byed certain restrictions on my privacy settings that allowed her to view my room and speak to me at will. That way she wouldn’t feel left out. Would still feel a part of the crew.

It also gave me someone to talk to. Someone to lend a sympathetic ear when I needed a rant. Someone to talk dirty to me when I needed a wank. Yeah, that’s right. I’m just being honest. But Cindy was happy to help out. At the end of the day, it was a win, win. Master bedroom aside, the living quarters were designed one as like to the other. Modest but spacious. Desk and chair. Closet and drawers. Love seat and coffee table. A viewing screen for prerecorded entertainment programs, movies, and news. Among its selection, each and every episode of all nine seasons of the Night’s of Our Lives. Go figure... Each room also provided a small console with limited control of the ship’s computers, including video communica-tion with others on board, privacy and individual comfort settings, games and music and literature within the system’s vast library, and even holographic long-distance communica-tion with settlements in the same star-system as well as other ships with an open channel in the area. As it were, drifting lazily within Earth’s orbit, we had access to communication with millions of people who lived on the planet. It’s residential space stations as well. Even cities and stations established on the Moon and Mars. The Husk could reach out to billions of devices and people, from the room next door to the far reaches of the solar system. I didn’t much make use of that capability, but I found it pretty fucking neat. Oh, and I nearly forgot... the best feature of our bedrooms... in a cozy alcove with a mattress for one, a porthole window looking out into infinity. Right by the pillow. Right where you lay your head. You had but to turn to the side and depending on the angle of the ship you had an incredible view of Mother Earth. All blue and green and white and gray... wrapped up into a neat, compact sphere. Forget the vastness of Poet’s Pride, from here you could gaze upon whole mountain chains. Whole continents. Whole oceans. In its variance of lush to barren to urban... Earth’s collective variety was a thing of magnificent pulchritude. I was rather humbled when I peeked my little head from that tiny porthole window to take in her staggering beauty. And if the Arachnid drifted at a different angle, her view, if less glamorous, was certainly no less spectacular. Endless cosmos. An infinite scatter of glittering diamonds cast upon a vast canvas of the deepest of night. Forever, boundless, eternal... stretched out to the edges of creation and beyond. Bejeweled and dazzling. A smattering of shimmering dust. A powdered nebulous light show.

Hugely epic. Utterly mysteri-ous. Space... the infinite black! All of that, from a small window within our private bedrooms. It was an excellent feature, to be sure. But for a real wicked dose of agoraphobic wowfactor, there was always the viewing deck with its ceiling and walls of transparency. I had been there once or twice but was humbled into a rather fearful state. The sheer splendour of forever laid out at every angle of available vision... it was a bit much for the likes of this orphan from the slums of ol’ Troub. There was plenty more to do while onboard, I should add, than simply linger at the views. The Arachnid Husk was equipped with an exercise area, a small running track, and a gym with equipment for a variety of workouts. There was even a lap pool and half-court with a basketball hoop. And get this… in the belly of the ship, there was a games room with billiards, table tennis, gambling tables, and a bar. There was enough liquor on board to last our little crew the duration of a party that went on endlessly for half a year. Drayke gave us a hard rule, however. “No funsies in space,” he told us. “That shit isn’t my style, and it has no place in these small quarters aboard the Husk. With only a thin wall to separate us from vacuum, I don’t want you two all amped up and crazy. No stims.” His ship. His rules. We had no choice but to comply. I was okay with it all. Booze would suit me fine. Nova had a harder time, however. She had developed a bit of a habit in the last couple of weeks. Oh well... the break will be good for her. A nice healthy purge. Honestly, I don’t think Nova will miss them. The Arachnid Husk was just way too awesome not to be happy. We even had pets! Rin Tin Tin, the ship’s resident robodog, made up for the lack of one thousand cats. Of those, we were limited to three. Malik, Malachi, and Malice. Need I say? The trio was black. It was Drayke’s thing. Personally, I’m rather fond of big old gingers. Encasing all that luxury, all those flash and badass gizmos, all those features, all those rooms and options for entertain-ment and well-being while dwelling out in space, the Arachnid’s hull was fully reinforced and plated with maga-plastic. Its windows, too. Fully M.P. Transparent and outfitted with digital opacity adjustments. Set those babies on a high enough filter, you could park a mere

million miles from the sun and still enjoy a night’s rest in the dark. That is if you didn’t melt in the process. Point is, they were high spec. No expenses spared. No corners cut. The Husk had it all. She didn’t skip a beat. So yeah... it was pretty alright. We were in a good place. It was all smiles, here. “Take your advise and stick it up your fucking ass!” My door was ajar. Otherwise, I would not have heard Nova yelling down the hallway. Okay, okay... so things weren’t completely rosy in the Husk. We were a bit of a dysfunctional group, sure. I mean, the ship was big but it wasn’t that big. It was still a relatively confined space... maybe some of us were a bit sick of each other. Maybe a bit of cabin fever was settling in. But Drayke made a better friend than an enemy, in any case. That’s for sure. When he’s your friend you don’t end up dead or charmed into slavery and submission. And I liked that aspect of our friendship. Maybe friend is painting too pretty of a picture. Let’s call it acquaintance. Or, I don’t know, maybe we’ll just call him someone who isn’t trying to kill us at the moment. Yeah... But in all honesty. Things were great. “Well fuck you, too!” Somewhere in the distance a door slammed. Well, things were OK.

There was something of a muffled scream from the adjacent room. Followed by a metallic crash. Angry, over-pronounced footsteps. Sounded like a tantrum. Sounded like Nova. I had a segment of a random episode of the Nights of Our Lives on a thirtysecond loop. Rachel Waters getting out of the pool. Slow-motion. Shaking out her hair in a seismic ripple effect that wobbled all the buoyant charms of her body. Naughty, playful gaze, greeting her husband’s Super Bowl guests with wordless promises of “see you in future episodes under more intimate circumstances.” I didn’t much care for the show, but it had its perks. I had a box of tissues on hand. Again, noises from the next room. A thud and a bang, louder than before. Sort of

pulled me out of that little repetitive reel of soft-core porn. Took my attention away from Rachel Waters and her slow-motion drip-drop shake from out of the chlorinated shallows. The slamming on the wall was like Morse code. Thud. Thud. Thud. It translated well enough... Zap, I need to blow some steam. I got up from the couch. Left the tissues and Rachel’s aquatic departure on standby. I left to go put out the fire. I could feel the rage on the other side of the door. I could sense the danger. Keeping the peace was going to come with a price... maybe I should go back to my safe little thirty-second world. Back to hot housewives and swimming pools. Nah... good deeds like these don’t grow on trees. They shouldn’t be ignored. I carried on. I felt like some chivalrous knight on the edge of some dreadful dragon’s lair. Like a woodsman who stumbled upon a mother bear and her cubs. I took a breath. Knocked as unobtrusive as I possibly could. “WHAT!?” Venom and fire. “Can’t you see I’m not in the fucking mood?!” Well, quite frankly, I couldn’t see anything. Other side of the door that I’m on. That was the point, wasn’t it? I was hoping to come in. But I didn’t mention that. Didn’t fan the flames. That kind of low-level joke—any joke perhaps—at this juncture would be folly. Nothing shy of shooting myself in the foot. So I said instead, “I’m not much in the mood myself. Let’s get a drink.” I think she had been expecting Drayke. Because she riled down real quick when she could hear that it was me. “Yeah,” she said, still closed off from within. “I could use a bloody drink.” She opened the door, just a crack. I couldn’t see much but there was a bit of a mess inside. More to my interest, Nova wasn’t dressed. Or barely, in any case. Her nose popped out of the inch-wide gap. “And don’t mistake me,” she explained. “When I say ‘bloody’ drink I don’t mean that plasma slushy shit that stupid pale fucker slurps like a miserable leech. He can sit and sip his disgusting vampyre juice until he pops like the puss-filled little zit he is.” Drayke had brought with him a store of vacuum-packed human blood in perpetration for our space-bound journey. Stock-piled a large amount of “meals” for the long-term living arrangements aboard the Arachnid Husk. It was preferable, we all agreed, to the alternative… having some servile goth bastard at the heels of his master, begging to be used and abused and dreaming wistfully of

eternity. None of us wanted that. Not in these close quarters of our current digs. Still, the sight of old crinkled plastic bags piling up in the rubbish, recently drained, red-brown liquid clinging and con-gealing to the discarded trash… knowing it was human blood… well, we aren’t fucking vampyres, are we? It right put us off our fucking meals. Ichor-Snax. The brand name, written in red font above its cartoon character red-droplet logo, thumbs up, smiley face. Tasteless, that. Like some goddamned kid’s meal. Flavours labeled in the corner. The bloody spectrum. From O to A to B to AB. Positive. Negative. The works. The bar code and prices denoted some major fluctuation from relatively cheap to outlandishly expensive. Must speak of the differences in their rarities. Of availability. “Jesus,” Nova continued.” “Have you heard the sound he makes when he sucks at those little packages?” Clearly, she was in a mood to diss the Drayke. Linger on his ineptitude. It was obvious that they had had some sort of row. I’d rather hear about it, or anything, over that drink. “Fuck the Drayke,” I said to appease. “Let’s hit the bar. Drink up his liquor.” “Aye aye.” Nova threw on some clothes. And we relocated. The bar was flash. And so were the drinks. Lots of vintage yum-yums to guzzle. “Whiskey?” I suggested. “Bourbon,” she requested. I grabbed an unopened bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, aged 23 years. I whistled. “Nice stuff,” I said. “And look, it’s the same age as you.” Nova was probably a bit older. Nova looked at the bottle. Was impressed. “Pee Vee Dubs. Nice. Pour me a double.” I did. She drank. Tensed somewhat less. “Encore.” So I poured her another. And one for myself. “Twenty-three years?” She smiled. “Is that how old you think I am?” “Nah,” I itted. “Probably not.” I sipped the night’s virgin sip. “Woah,” I held up my glass, inspected it in the light. “Good stuff,” Nova said.

“Damned good stuff,” I agreed. I sipped again, savouring its flavour, the unwinding of my brain. “Anyways, I’d pin you at twenty-seven. Twenty-eight at the most.” “Are you flirting with me, Zap?” She smiled. “Not really,” I wasn’t. Not really. “Why’s that? Are you thirty or something?” There was no way. She took a long sip of Pappy. “Thirty-six,” she told me. I sprayed a bit of my drink. A frightful waste. But such was my shock. “No fucking way is that true, Nova.” “Honest to god,” she said. Threw her ID on the table. “Not that I’ve ever been honest with him before.” “Well fuck me sideways in the goddamned arse,” I said in expletive and disbelief. “You’re older than me, babes. I never would have guessed.” “Yeah, well, thanks… I guess.” She didn’t seem grateful. Didn’t seem to care. She tapped her empty glass. More of that Morse code. I was fluent. Poured her a refill. I changed the subject. “So what’s eating you, Nova? You’ve got both tits in a blender. What happened?” She threw back her head, exhaled. Groaned in frustration. “It’s Silverdick.” “Drayke,” I said. “Yeah, I gathered. What did you guys talk about that’s got your hackles up?” Nova dove into a stream of swear words, curses, and complaints. Super aggressive and not at all interested in hearing out whatever points I may have offered, added, or conveyed. She needed a listening ear. A head to nod. A person to “mmhmm” in the small gaps between her continuous and angry blathering. It was all very repetitive, her rant. A cycle of the same few complaints. Basically, she wanted to get going. Wanted to jump-start the journey and put the pedal to the metal. To leave orbit and look back upon earth, a mere speck in the

rearview mirror. All gung-ho and go. Precaution be damned. Full throttle action. So reckless. So Nova. Drayke, so it seemed, had an entirely different approach. I wasn’t about to say it, but he probably had the better approach. It was hard to determine what he needed the time for—what, with Nova not exactly going into a whole lot of detail concern-ing the flip side of the argument—but he needed three more days. When I asked why, Nova told me in her own special way. Heated and flustered, she explained that Drayke had his “bull-shit excuses.” It really shed a whole lot of light on the matter. A whole lot of nothing at all. But I allowed her to leave those details out. Allowed her to rant. Between my occasional nods and the frequent refills of Pappy Van Winkle, things were patching over. Were settling down. When I asked why Nova was in such a rush—after all, we had three whole weeks before the Galactic Crown—she turned from angry to sad. Even a little desperate. She explained that she wanted to pursue some leads she had regarding the disap-pearance of August. That time was precious. Could make a difference. Even a measly three days. The Galactic Crown was in the same star system where her brother lived and worked. Where he did his research. Where he gambled and drank. Where he was last seen. It was also in the same space as Prince, his employer and sovereign… and very likely, one of the last people to have seen or spoken to August. It became rather clear. Nova’s need to get going. It was founded on more than the simple matter of impatience I had thought it to be. It wasn’t about the race at all. I should have known. I poured us both one last drink, gave her my sympathies, and suggested we hit the hay. It was difficult to keep track of time in space, but it was well past 1 AM, and I could see that Nova was just barely clinging on. She needed her rest. I told her goodnight at her door. Turned to my own door, but changed my mind. I had a notion. And a curiosity. I went in the other direction. Down the hallway and down to the master bedroom. At the door, a black cat nuzzled against my ankle and purred to me in greeting. Definitely not Malice. Either Malik or Malachi. Rin Tin Tin was there too. He

was in battery-conserve mode, sleeping soundly at the base of those big double doors. They were worked in embossed handcraft. Gold leaf scrolls and swirls. Brass doorknobs and feline-themed knocker. Its polished jaws clamping down on its device. Jeesh…. Light years fancier than the simple, plain ed doors to the guest’s quarters. I gave the knocker a ginger little tap. The doors opened inward, slowly. No one had opened them. There was no mechanism that triggered the action. It was just pure, plain-and-simple, fucked up creepy vampyre magic. The hinges were well-oiled, but they creaked for dramatic effect. From within, relaxed on a luxuriant couch, Drayke finished the last of one of his Ichor-snax packets. The inward suction was unpleasant and loud. He tossed the empty packet across the room. A perfect swish into a garbage can that had a child’s toy basketball hoop attach to its rim. “Nothing but net,” Drayke smacked his lips, smeared a deep crimson from his feed. “Come in, Zap,” he beckoned. “Come on in.” So I did. I walked on in. But now that I was here, I was second-guessing my plan. The doors did their thing. Closed behind me. Real slow. Real creepy. Unassisted. I goggled around. Flash digs, mate. Flash fucking digs. It was clean and spacious and outfitted with all of the finest. Nothing lacking. Fully decked. Fully polished. I was fully impressed. One level below the bridge, the master bedroom shared its same front-on view of the cosmos. If the Arachnid was close enough to an object, a heavenly body in space, you could see it coming at you, head-on, with the ship’s approach. In faster-than-light speed, an array of inward-angled lines from stars’ light would come at you from every conceivable direction. Or seem to. Well, it does onboard the Millennium Falcon in Star Wars. So it might be true in real life. Half of what I think I know about space comes from those movies. Either way, time dilation makes for a heady experience. Stars coming at you… a million threads of light… even sober that would be a sight... The view took up more than half of the huge room’s wall space. It was the next best thing after the observation deck. But unlike the O.D. the master bedroom had all the comforts and amenities to relax and entertain. Comfy couches for

lounging. King size feather bed for sleeping, resting, fucking. Bathroom and shower done up in black marble... great for washing off the sex or sudding up in fragrant soaps and oils. A fully fleshed-out holographic module and massive infinity-pixel viewing screen for choice eppies of the Night’s of Our Lives or Spaceflix’s latest releases. Fuck’s sake... there was even a bar all gilded in gold and reflecting all manner of choice and rare liquors in its polished mirrors. If this pad were to be a meal it’d be pad king, if you take my meaning. “How’s it hanging, Nosferatu?” I asked the Drayke. Winced at my own choice of words. That Pappy had given me the courage I needed but not the judgment. “I’m doing just fine, Zap. Fine.” He smiled, fangs on display. “But let’s not call us that again, shall we?” “Certainly not,” I agreed. Sweated a bit. What possessed me to come here? “So what brings you here, sweet Zap?” Did he just read my mind? “Yeah, well,” I stammered. “I was just... I was thinking... well...” Nervous as I was, I had been reduced to the stammering idiot of the century. Zero elo-quence. “Here,” offered Drayke. “Let me help you.” He charmed me. But not like he had in the past. It was only just a little. Just a tad. Enough to implant the suggestion of comfort and confidence that I otherwise lacked to enable me to speak my mind. My thoughts became better structured. My speech more coherent. My delivery, more smooth, more decipherable, more sound. I found that whatever fear or anxiety had held me back was lifted and unfounded besides. My inhibitions gone, I spoke my mind. “Any chance we can take off a bit earlier than planned?” I asked. He sighed. “Did Nova put you up to this?” “No,” I told him. “Well, yes. Not really. Sort of.” “Well that covers all the bases,” he rolled his eyes.

“I mean, no. She didn’t,” I clarified. “She didn’t ask me to do anything. She was just telling me how much she was hot to make tracks.” “I see,” he said and finally took care of the blood on his face with a wipe of a cashmere sleeve. “And did she tell you what I told her?” He asked. “Why we can’t just up and ‘make tracks.’” “Well, no,” I fully itted. “Nova wasn’t really expressive on your views.” “Of course not.” “I’ll be frank,” I offered. That fraction of a charm had opened the floodgates. “She said you were about as charming as an aborted dog fetus. That you are a big, fat, ugly—” “That will do,” Drayke held up a hand. “I get the point. No need to finish, Zap. It’s rather clear.” I blushed. Apologetic. “She didn’t tell me specifics. Just that you demanded time before we left. That you needed three days.” “That’s correct.” “Seems like a long time.” Drayke got up from the couch. Ran his long pale fingers through his delicious locks of ink-black curls. “Have you ever been in space before this venture, Zap?” He asked me. “Have you ever sailed out into the big black? Been on a voyage to the stars and beyond? Have you ever traversed to the edge of in-finity? To the fringes and foundations of existence?” “Mate,” I leveled with him. “I’m an orphan from the slums of ol’ Troub. I’ve never been so far as to be wholly out of sight from at least a small glimpse of Poet’s Pride in the distance. I scarcely travel beyond the reach of its shadow. Not until now, that is.” “Well,” and now he leveled with me. “I have. Many times. In the Arachnid Husk and other ships like her. I’ll tell you why we can’t just ‘make tracks’ like your friend, Nova, would have us otherwise do. I’ll tell you why we need three days.”

And he did. He told me a lot. A long laundry list of reasons why we needed three days before taking off. How it was necessary to make the routine checks and structural mainte-nance examinations to ensure the integrity of the ship before heading out deeper into space. Even more complex and de-manding of time, to determine the functionality and sound installment of all system hardware. To reboot and reload the ship’s software. To complete a thorough series of system diag-nostics sweeps. There was more. Other techie jargon that was a well and proper head-fuck to someone like me. Someone who has hardly mastered the complexities of his phone. In one ear, out the next. But as he rattled it all off the point settled in. Drayke went on to justify his case. To hammer in the point. To punctuate necessity for the delay of those three solar days. He told me about the CryoBeds. The sleep pods. Those cold human-sized capsules. About them and the stasis chamber where they were arranged. How they were vital to emergency protocol when traveling in space. How they could save our lives in the event that our ship might become damaged or was to run adrift. Out of fuel, out of air, out of food. If atmospheric systems go kaputski. If temperature control goes tits up. If we were to become infected with potentially fatal infectious di-seases, malignant viruses, or parasitic lifeforms. If the Arach-nid Husk was to undergo any number of malfunctions. If we were to endure any manner of circumstance that could render her unable to travel or navigate. The list went on. A whole lot of ifs. All favorable outcomes to those myriad heinous scenar-ios hinged on the sound and working order of the cryobeds. Drayke assured me that many space travelers had been recovered, some famously so, alive and intact, frozen in sleep, resuscitated and thawed, fully brought back to wakeful con-sciousness and health. Sometimes it had been months, years, or even decades after they had undergone whatever emergen-cy had forced their hand to engage themselves into the dire condition of cryosleep. Yet it was exactly that, cryosleep, that had enabled them to make their unlikely return. Had saved them from the alternative. Death. “So you see?” Drayke asked me. “You see the importance to all of my fastidious box-ticking?” “I do.”

“You see why a little delay to our journey… a little pru-dence… diligence… just might be the very thing that saves our lives?” I nodded. “Yes. I guess I do.” “Good,” Drayke said. “Because I’ve got a team of droids doing the once over. Working around the clock. And while they are pretty fast at doing their job they are not Speedy Gon-fucking-zales. You get me.” “Yup.” It wasn’t a lie. I got that bastard well enough. “Good. Because I haven’t even mentioned the escape pods. Or the food stores. The water tanks. The filtration system.” “I’ll speak to Nova,” I offered. “Try and explain the sitch. Calm her down.” “Do that,” he encouraged. I started to walk out. “Hey Zap,” he called out to me. I turned back. “In the meantime, why don’t you take stock of our food stores. Help the droids where they may need it throughout the ship. Ask them. They’ll tell you how you can help.” “Sure,” I said. “Who knows,” he shrugged. “Work hard enough. Get Nova involved... Maybe we’ll be able to ‘make tracks’ a day early.” He smiled, somewhat less predatory. More amicable. “You let us have some stims and we’ll get shit done twice as fast. Maybe leave two days early.” “No stims.” I knew that he’d never allow it. Knew he’d say no. I just wanted to make some sort of show of defiance. Do anything besides kiss his cold, dead ass. It was a weak show of opposi-tion. But at least it was something. “No stims,” I echoed. Nodded. And I “made tracks.” Headed back to my quarters. Thought about how I could speed things along. Help the cause. I could

hardly stay awake as it was. I’d put myself to use in the morning. But something kept me up. Kept me up just a little bit longer. On the way back to my room I saw a soft blue light glowing from the small gap left ajar to Nova’s bedroom. I almost ed it up. But I got curious in the end. Had to take a peek. If Nova was up I’d tell her there was a chance to leave a day early. If she was asleep I’d close the door. Leave her be. I closed one eye, put the other right up to the crack. Peered inside. There she was, unceremonious, in the middle of the floor. It was just like before. Back at her flat when I first saw her redreaming a dream. Engaged in her modulator. Busy interacting with Morpheus. Nova was a gnat’s wing shy of sporting her birthday suit—that would have been sporting of her. She had nothing on except a sports bra and panties. She was slick with sweat. On her knees, hard against the floor, back and neck arched backward, odd and pronounced. It was like a single moment of contortion in an exorcism. The demon within possessing its host into wild dislocations. It looked intense. Looked painful. But Nova’s expression was lax. Her jaw was loose. Eyes were lost to the back of her head. She breathed a steady heaving breath. I watched her breasts rise and fall, her curves and angles bathed in the soft aqua glow of her active head socket. I probably could have left just then. Probably should have. But I had sort of crossed a certain threshold. Had lingered long enough to serve my curiosity. Had moved on to fascination and arousal. Had gone from taking a peep to being a creep. She was a tomboy, and I was a peeping tom. I had been there, lecherous, devouring with my eyes for perhaps a full minute. Ninety seconds on the outset. Not a long time, but a long time, really, in moments like that where you just don’t belong. Part of me could have happily stayed and watched all night. Could have entered and approached, sa-vouring the sweet indulgences of up-close inspection. Studied the low light playing prettily off the cold sweat of pale goose flesh stretched taut. The way Nova looked, eyes all back in her brain, I doubt she would have noticed had I sat right beside her. But I came to my good senses and tried to wrangle whatever respectful course of action I may have had within me while in my heated state. I managed to tap deep within some reservoir of gentlemanly moral goodness, wading through a murky

pool of indecency and horny debauchery to find it. I closed her door. Made my way to mine. It had to be after 2 AM. I was pretty wracked. Pretty thrashed. But my loins had been stirred by that sight. Rachel Waters was still stuck in a loop. Eternally exiting the pool in slow motion. Bikini bod and bikini-clad. She was hot stuff, sure. But it wouldn’t do. Not now. “Cindy?” “Yes, Zap?” “Turn this shit off.” “You would like me to discontinue the loop?” “No. Discontinue the feed. Turn it off.” “Of course, Zap. Shall I put on something else? When Har-ry Met Sally?” She suggested. “Not now, Cindy.” I needed some sleep. But I was really worked up. “Let’s do a bit of dirty talk, Cinders,” I said. “You up for that?” “I’m always up for it, baby.” “Can you do Nova?” I asked. “Talk dirty to Nova?” “No. Like… can you do her voice. Can you sound like Nova. When you talk dirty to me.” “I think I can manage.” And she did. Sounded just like Nova. I had hardly undone my tros when I burst at the seams. I felt like an overeager fifteen-year-old whose cock was touched by a girl for the first time. The deed was quick. But it was all I needed. I collapsed on my bed and closed my eyes. I think I fell asleep as fast I had

wanked. Instantly, I dreamed.

Two days later and we were set to go. I had been busting my ass around the clock. Playing errand boy to the droids. Doing the simple, petty, mundane chores that any old asshole could do. The shit no one wants to do. Hell, even a droid who is programmed for nothing but... you could see they were hap-py to the torch to their human helper. But I soldiered on. Marched to the beat. Pulled up my fucking sleeves. Stuck right in. Mindless but time-consuming, I ticked and tallied and documented and sorted, I inspected and installed, I tested and retested. It was boring as shit, I’ll tell you that. But I’d rather not dwell on any further details. Let’s skip out on the subtle nuances to the utterly dreary. I’m short on sleep and if I go into it now I just know I’ll keel over. Hit the pillow, and hit it hard. Simple as the many missions on my to-do list were, I got them done. I freed up hours upon hours for the droids to work on more complex and skillful jobs. In two days I did near a full day’s workload for those metal bastards. I was drenched in sweat. Caked and covered in dust. But we were done. And we were early. It was time to make some tracks. When I told Nova, deep in her cups, she ambled over to me and kissed me full on the mouth. It was a sloppy affair. Deft, not so much. Her mouth tasted of Pee Vee Dubs. And each flicker of tongue into the back of my throat came between noi-sy hiccups. “Zap! You’re a champ!” She kissed me one last time. I let her. Sure, drunk as she was, it was kind of gross as much as it was nice. But Nova was the girl of my dreams. My heart’s de-sire. And sexually frustrated to the bloody max, I swear I had a boner for her since I saw her with that pisco sour in Paladin Square. So yeah, I let her kiss me. “I’ll be in my bunk,” I told her. The booze from her kisses still fresh on my

tongue, I did the nasty by my lonesome with Cindy doing her topnotch impressions. I crashed in a heap and dozed for a spell. A couple hours later we’d be up and out of orbit. Deep space... but first... deep sleep.

* * *

Nova was sleeping off the drink, but I ed Drayke and Rin Tin Tin in the bridge for our jump into deep space. It had the same structural layout as the master bedroom one deck below us, same view. But it was filled with all manner of instruments and devices. Computer consoles layered and stacked, one beside the other, one million buttons and levers and screens, all in different shapes, sizes, and colours. Dials blinked. Machines hummed. It was actually not at all that much different from James T. Kirk’s own Starship Enterprise. One thing the bridge did lack? A full crew of well-diversified staff. Not a hint of Scottish or Russian. No Japanese or East African. No surly Georgia twang. No bold and brash boy from Iowa. And no First Officer, Spock. Shame, that. The view was a deep black field, endless and vast, pin-pricked with billions of bright white particles. Your classic view of space. In our peripherals, far to the Arachnid’s port, Mother Earth, in all of her glory. Shyly concealed behind her great girth, a sliver of moon. Little Luna. She safely hid behind the blue-green hem of her mother’s skirts but risked a peek to watch our departure. Drayke was slouched in the Captain’s chair, drinking in the view and drinking up an Ichor-snax. AB positive. Rin Tin Tin lay obedient at his master’s feet. The robodog worried away at an aluminum bone with his sharp steel teeth. Nanodroids waged an invisible war on his fleas, who thrived in and infested the synthetic fibers of his coat and plasticized epider-mis. “Yo, Nos-” Drayke shot me a look of warning. “-tradamus,” I quickly ad-libbed. He had strictly forbidden that other pet name, Nosferatu. “Nice save,” he commended.

“Cheers,” I said. “Hey, are we ready to rock?” Drayke looked out to the stars. “Just about,” then turned to face me. “Thanks to you.” I blushed. “You did well, Zap.” “Awwww, shucks.” I grinned. “I genuinely applaud your efforts,” his tone was warm and sincere. But I never quite know with this guy. With a half-bat of an eyelash, he could charm me into sucking his dick and beg for seconds. “Thanks,” I was wary. “Nova must be pleased,” he intoned. I could still taste the whiskey from our pashing. “Yeah... she took it well.” “Good,” Drayke said. “She should be grateful to you.” He scratched affectionately at Rin Tin Tin’s head. “Where is she now?” “Ummm... yeah. She’s sleeping off a fair share of fun.” “Tchhh,” Drayke sneered. “Disgusting creature. If she wasn’t the talented driver that she is... I swear she is utterly useless. A vile little girl. As it stands, she’d be nothing without that car of hers. She’d be less than Rin Tin Tin’s shit without Neon Dreams.” That’s my girl you’re talking about. “Yeah, well, she’s your only ticket to getting a shot at revenge on Prince. So maybe you ought to be the one who’s grateful.” I was expecting a murderous glare. A command to get the fuck out. But I got something I didn’t expect. Laughter. Drayke smiled and chuckled. Amused and jovial. “You really like that girl, don’t you, Zap?” “She’s the one for me, Draykie. The only one.” He laughed again. This time perhaps in ridicule. “Well don’t hold your breath, Zap,” he told me. “I don’t think you’ll be rewarded by your tenacity with this one.”

“Thanks for the advice, but no thanks. I think I’ll take my pointers on love from those that live and breathe. From those that have a beating heart.” He smiled. “As you will.” “Anyways, Drayke,” I continued, and maybe he did that partial-charm thing again to make me at ease because I wasn’t holding back. No inhibitions. No filters. “What about your girl. What’s the back story on that, man? I mean, here we are, unlikely companions out in space. We should know each other’s shit. Have each other’s backs. I’m here, in any case, if you ever want to unload,” I suggested. “And I by no means make that offer in a sexual way,” I quickly clarified. “But if you ever want to chat, I’m game. If you ever want to talk about —what was her name?—Lilith... if you want to talk about Lilith, I’m right here.” There was a long pause after that. A long, unspoken silence. Drayke simply stared out into the infinite black. I dared say nothing further. I waited, while he stared. Doubtless his thoughts transported him elsewhere... to another time. Anoth-er place. From my vantage he may have been counting the endless stars of space. But I knew better. Drayke’s mind was visiting the love of his life. The love that he lost. The love that was taken from him. I didn’t know what to expect. Wasn’t sure how things would roll. Anger. Maybe tears. Or simply more silence. Long, lonely silence. That would perhaps be what I’d most expect. But what came next I would have never guessed. Would have been last on a list of likely options. When the silence was broken it was in heartfelt gratitude. Genuine and warm. Kind and sincere. From the Lord of Obsidian, vampyre heartthrob, shadow-folk extraordinaire, the heir to Hades... to the gutter-born, reject mistake, the or-phan slum-dog, the rascal from Troubadour’s dankest corner. Drayke Silverstem thanked me. Little old me. I was beside my-self at the social canyon he just leapt. I, myself, was grateful too. When Drayke spoke he was eager. ionate and un-guarded. I had struck a chord that thawed an otherwise icy disposition. “Lilith...” he began. “Lilith Strange. Now there was a woman, Zap. A woman for the ages.” He paced the room. Back and forth. He traded his gaze between my own, directed back at him, and the stars. “I think we men of the earth all have our own most beautiful woman in the world. We come across a few, every so often, and

say as much... she is the most beautiful woman in the world. And perhaps we even mean it. Infatuation may have us swear by it. But then we meet the one,” he looked over to me, glassy eyes. The stars reflected in his dark, fathomless gaze. “The one that redefines it all. How we perceive beauty. How we interpret it. How we see it without, but much more, how we feel it from within. To bind it to our own beauty. To feel that soul connect-ion. To know true love and know that it is absolute. Imperme-able. Eternal.” He looked back to the stars, dreamy, forlorn. “Perhaps for you, it is Nova,” Drayke suggested. “The most beautiful girl in the world. For me? Without a shred or scrap or inkling to compare... speaking from the bottom of my heart and from the depths of my soul, from the essence throughout me that makes up my very existence... my most beautiful girl in the whole world and beyond...” “Lilith Strange...” I whispered like it was some sacred name not to be spoken lightly. “Oh, you should gave seen her, Zap,” and now a tear fell from his pale cheek. It glimmered and sparkled in refracted starlight. It solidified into crystal and shattered on impact with the metal floor ing. I gawked. Vampyre tears are a rare thing to behold. More than mere saline. The liquid transforms to solid in its oxygen-ated form, a brittle crystal. Bearing odd and unique properties, they are worth a fortune. Ingested, they offered an incredible high. Black market shit. Expensive beyond a layman’s means. I winced as Rin Tin Tin quickly licked up the tiny fragments. “But it wasn’t just her beauty...” Drayke continued. “Lilith was the full package. A complete ‘A’ to ‘Z.’ No shortages. No wants.” He smiled to . “She could outwit us all. Make the sternest of stiffed collared assholes laugh. She could play piano, harpsichord... better than anyone I’ve heard. The instruments themselves seemed to come to life, to breathe, when her fingers played upon the keys. She sang with the richest, fullest, most lovely voice you could possibly imagine. She was talented, gifted... excelled in everything she ever tried or attempted. She was the very best of us all.” He paused, looked at me side glanced. “And Zap...” “Yeah, Drayke?”

He flat-out groaned. “Could she ever fuck!!” He winced like he was missing out on something crucial to survival. Like his football club just let in a goal in extra minutes, season on the line. Like he had tasted the forbidden fruit, and dropped it, watched it tumble, down some irretrievably narrow abyss. Out of reach. The memory of its taste on his tongue. A torment. A torture. A longing. “Lilith had stamina, my man,” he told me, avid. “And she went places, said things, did things others wouldn’t or couldn’t. But that’s not to say it was always wild. Sometimes it was tender. Slow. More caring than ionate. Other times...” he howled like a man, bereft of the sweet-est sin. “She was perfection, Zap,” he summarized. “Any man to look upon Lilith could see it. Any man to look upon Lilith would want her for himself.” And here his expression darkened to a frightening shade of hatred. “It’s no wonder he had wanted her for himself. That he stole her away!” He clawed at the arms of the Captain’s chair, deep trenches of torn leather now tallied each fingernail’s violence. I assumed that by “he” Drayke could only mean Prince. I didn’t want to interrupt him to ask. Didn’t want to disrupt the narrative. Hell, let’s be honest, I was afraid to speak. The man had a crazy look in his eye. His anger was rife. His pain was real. I felt like to speak was to risk serious harm. So I listened. Listened to Drayke’s mournful tale. “My father,” he said, a great deal calmer. “Leon Silverstem. He served under Prince as one of his seven high servants.” I must have looked puzzled because I didn’t have to ask the question. Drayke looked at me and he must have seen that I was ignorant. “The seven high servants to Prince are his most loyal, most useful, and often most dangerous of underlings in service to his majesty. Nova’s brother is one of them now. Though he wasn’t at the time.” “My father…” he continued. “His role as high servant was to serve as grand assassin. To seek out and determine per-ceived threats to his majesty’s person, imagined or real. My father would snuff out the flame before it took to the kindling. Pull up the weed before it had firmly taken root. He accepted his assignments with swift alacrity. He killed his targets with brutal efficiency.” “More often than not it was just some poor rival to Prince. No one that had done anything to deserve to die. No one who had planned any real mischief. Usually, the people my father killed were people who Prince simply didn’t like. People he

would rather have not existed. So Prince would play god, snap his fingers, and send my father to do his dirty work. The next day one less rival, one less annoyance, and on a rare occasion, one less threat would be relevant in regards to Prince.” “Such was the high esteemed roll of Leon Silverstem. Lickspittle to Prince. My father.” He spat. “Well,” he carried on, pacing the room. Agitated. “Back in those bygone days the Silverstem family actually possessed a greater fortune than even Prince himself.” Fuck’s sake… how rich is rich before it becomes extrava-gance? Before it becomes stupid? Because these motherfuck-ers were rich. Absurdly so. Opulence. The very definition. “That never suited Prince,” Drayke explained, disgusted. “Us having more than he.” Livid. “Oh, no…. that simply wouldn’t do. Of course, he had no means to will his fortune to even greater sums than my family’s. Nor could Prince ask us to yield up our own. Not without looking a beggar. Not with-out embarrassment.” “So what could he take from my family? How could he hurt us without seeming to hurt us? How could he mistreat my father, his loyal servant, one of the highest-ranked men in his service? How could he slight Leon Silverstem, yet mask it as a courtesy. As a compliment?” There were a lot of questions there but the whole thing had an air of soliloquy, of story. I didn’t want to fuck the narrative. I held my tongue. I listened on, in silence. Drayke sat back down in the Captain’s chair. He exhaled. A great, deep sigh. “I was betrothed, Zap,” he told me. “In love and betrothed to the woman of my dreams. The most beautiful girl in the world.” He bent over. Buried his face in his hands. “He could have had anyone. Prince… he could have had any woman he desired. And while I do not blame his choice for who she was, I certainly blame his choice for what she want-ed… what she didn’t want. And she sure as shit didn’t want him!” “She was with me, Zap.” He moaned. “We were a pair. She was my bride-to-be.

We were happy. We were in love. Yet he took her away from me. He chose Lilith even though she had been promised to me. Even though she begged not to be given to him. Prince…” he growled like a wild animal. “What did he want with a vampyre girl? She’d outlive him. Outlive him by centuries. She would remain young and beautiful. He would wither. Become wizened. He would look a fool in older age. Parading around with a woman of younger years. Of a differ-ent species.” “Yet he still chose Lilith among all the women of the big, wide galaxy. All of the fucking women, Zap. And he takes mine. My heart’s true love.” There was a gap of silence while Drayke struggled with his emotions. At length he stifled whatever sorrow or rage had threatened to boil over. “He didn’t stop there,” he told me. Drayke’s tone was ominous. It was controlled, but fragile. Pla-cidity that heralded doom. Like the calm before a storm. It was downright frightening. “Oh, no… Prince’s insults to the Silver-stem family had only just begun.” “Side by side with Lilith, in the face of such unaging beauty, Prince’s own mortality began to weigh on his mind. To count-er his newly acquired fiancé’s vampyric condition of elongated lifespan, he devised a plan for himself. He assembled a team of the galaxy’s top cyberneticists. He gathered the best and the most talented in their field. To begin a research and develop-ment program with the ultimate aim to fully replace the hu-man body with cybernetic parts. And the real kicker? To do so without the loss or impairment to the original conscious self.” “This wasn’t an idle whim of scientific endeavor. It was personal. The entire program… the instated task… it was put into a plan of action with one goal in mind. For Prince himself to assume a physical state of fully cybernetic anatomy.” “You see, Zap,” he said, pacing once again. Manic and charged. “That way, in his robotic form, Prince could endure, eternal, beside his hijacked lover for the entirety of Lilith’s long, vampyric lifespan. Indeed, Prince would outlive his newly obtained pet. He would expire only when the stars themselves do so. Forever replacing and upgrading the parts that comprise his artificial self. He would achieve an everlast-ing state of rule. The galaxy’s eternal sovereign.”

“But the technology was not there,” he added. “Not yet. In the meantime, there was work to be done. Research and pro-gression to be had. Well… we’ve since reached the technologic-al abilities to achieve Prince’s ultimate goal. That metal fiend has assumed his eternal kingship. But before the cyberneti-cists were where they are today, they needed subjects, willing or otherwise, to test their potential progresses, theories, and hopeful advances.” “Now this is where Prince really takes the cake at becom-ing the asshole of the century…” he kicked over a computer monitor. He raked at his own flesh. The wound on his arm instantly mended. Vampyre healing. Extremely accelerated. “Get this, Zap… instead of using any number of volunteers who were willing and eager to enroll as subjects in the pro-gram… to get a chance to become bionic. Athletically advanced. Faster, stronger, better. Immune to disease. Impervious to harm. Blah blah fuckety blah… Instead of using one of those sorry lot who weren’t happy enough with their own bodies, what does Prince do?” I think I knew where this was going. I winced in prepara-tion. “The bloody fucker insists on using Lilith. My Lilith! My dearest, truest love, Lilith.” He walked over to the Captain’s chair, ripped it from its bolts, hurled it across the room. “Against her will. Against the pleading case of my father. Against all good reason and decency. That sadistic megalo-maniac… that horrific fucking… monster.” Now that’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black. It would’ve been my life had I said as much. I kept the thought to myself. “He made her into a machine…” he wept. Dozens of vampyre tears hit the floor. If I were to collect those later I’d be rich until the end of my days. Rin Tin Tin ate them as quickly as they fell. My heart sank… for my lost inheritances and for Drayke as well. “He turned my sweet Lilith into a machine…” And then he raged. “A MACHINE!!” He crossed the room and throttled Rin Tin Tin. He lifted him by the neck and in a solid jerking motion ripped the robodog’s head from its shoulders. Wires and cables came out at the neck, sparked, and sizzled. He threw the metal canine corpse down upon the floor. I stood and stared. Frozen and afraid. Terrified, even. But above all, I was sorry. Sorry for Drayke in his pitiful state. Sorry for the loss he had endured. He knelt

upon the floor, battered heart and broken spirit. Later on in our acquaintance, I would find out from Drayke that Lilith had taken her own life. Unable to live with herself in her cybernetic condition, she had flung herself from the Ivory Spire, a monolithic monu-ment even taller than Poet’s Pride. Not even her Megaplastic casing could have saved her from the impact of that fall. Leon Silverstem, Drayke’s father… he simply vanished. Unable to live with his grief or his shame or both. Unable too, to raise a hand against his sovereign and master, his betrayer and tor-mentor, he fled into some unknown vector of space. To dwell or die in exile. Nobody knows. “Drayke,” I called out at last. He was on his hands and knees. His hair and clothes in disarray. He looked up to me from his position on all fours. It was the furthest from pride I could have ever imagined him falling. “Drayke,” I called out again. He turned to look at me, and for the first time the dead man actually looked dead. “What?” He simply asked. Perhaps it was all he could muster. “Let’s get that royal, metallic motherfucker,” I urged. “Let’s kill the bastard dead. Let’s fuck Prince where it hurts. Let’s make him bloody pay.” He did not immediately spring into action, but some sort of light had returned just then to Drayke’s eye. He got up from the ground and stood, alert and composed. “Let’s get your revenge sorted out,” I continued to rally. “Let’s avenge your love. Let’s justify the wrong that was done to her. Let’s redeem Lilith’s soul. Let’s go.” He raised to his full stature. He dusted off his shoulders and thighs. He stashed away his grief, never far from his heart, and wielded instead a strong and focused determination. As I say, there was a definite glint in his eye. The Drayke, it would seem, was back. “Let’s make some tracks.” “Damn right!” I encouraged. “Where to?” “Outer space.” And he punched the button for faster-than-light speed. We made our jump.

A GRIM DISCOVERY

A handful of kiloparsecs later and we arrived at some distant star system. Unless you were near enough to a planet or star, an asteroid or nebula, a space station or craft... unless you were near enough to something—to anything—for a point of reference in all of that black, it all looked the same. Space was space. Black with white bits. I confess, I was rather disappointed. Still, it was good to be underway. Good to be out of orbit and onward with our journey. And after my dramatic and emotional interaction with Drayke, it was good to be by myself to collect my thoughts. To gather my wits. Cindy had been watching When Harry Met Sally. Again. I swear she had seen it more than me at this stage, and the flick was one of my all-time favourites. In a week since her introduction to the film, she had watched Billy and Meg play the roles of their lives over and over and over. I had removed Cindy’s factory settings. Gave her the freedom to do and be-come what and who she wants to do and be. Well... turns out that freedom of choice led to one hell of an epic binge re-watch of history’s greatest rom-com cinematic feature. I paused at my door, overheard the scene where Sally demonstrates in public her convincing ability to fake an or-gasm. For a moment I thought Nova and Drayke might be fucking on my bed. Nothing quite so grand as that. Just the tele playing a movie. I decided to leave Cindy to her film. I didn’t want the distraction. Didn’t want the company. I was still trying to get over everything Drayke had told me about Lilith and Prince. I was still processing it all. And I still hadn’t slept. Not properly. Not in days. I just needed to unwind. I needed some space. Space... bloody hell. We were deep in it now. And speaking of space, I decided to seek my solitude on the observation deck. I took the long way around. Detoured to the bar. I needed a drink. Anything but

Pappy Van Winkle. Good as it is I had had my fill. I grabbed whatever. Vodka. Crystal Skull. Seemed appropriate, a head fuck pending. I took it with me to observe the new star system. Like I said, space is space, with nothing around to compare to its vastness. But I wasn’t really in the mood for anything grand and epic anyhow. Nothing overstated and flash. The deep dark black with its scattered mess of stars, it was like flour cast on an ebony cutting board. Cocaine spilled out a-cross a dark table. The view suited me fine. The Arachnid Husk was still a half day’s travel from the thick of the action. We were still on the outer fringes of the solar system. Calculated space jumps require a safe measure of leeway, a healthy distance from major heavenly bodies. Covering vast stretches of the cosmos in a single flash, it has its risks. If you cut it too close... rush the jump to your final destination... well, arriving out of deep space and into the cen-ter of a star, or within its reach of irreversible orbital decay... that doesn’t do anyone any good. So yeah, we played it safe. We’ll amble in nice and slow that final leg of our journey. We’d be there soon enough. Among the planets and their star. Some tasteless bastard with a sweet tooth must have discovered this particular solar system because it had been given its name, the Sweetener System. Its planets, Xylotol and Molasses, arid, blazing shitholes. Dry desert for the most part. Only a handful of small settlements and mining villages ac-counted for the meager sum of human habitation between them. Nectari, ninety percent sweltering jungle, with only its poles of massive freshwater lakes to differentiate the land-scape. Agave Prime, where Prince sits atop the Ivory Spire, the Galactic House of Rule. Home base to the Royal Fleet. The capital planet of the human race. Stevia and its seven moons, where sex slaves are bred and manufactured, schooled and trained. They are famous throughout the galaxy for their unrivaled quality, unparalleled skill. The gas giant Rapadura, with its space station metropolis, the golden city among the stars, Honey Town. It’s the largest offworld city in the galaxy. Larger than the next three times over. And Muscavado, home to the solar system’s largest concentration of people, urban settlements, and businesses. Dubbed locally as the City Planet. It was the NYC to the NY, or equivalent, within the Sweetener System. Those seven planets, their collection of moons and pseudo-planets and space stations, all orbited a star three times larger than Earth’s own sun. A huge but

lazy and dying star, a dim, yellow giant, an ancient, dwindling flame... Sugar Daddy. I shook my head. Whatever dickhead discoverer a millen-nium ago happened to gaze upon “Sugar Daddy” and his seven children through a telescope… well... he or she had a lot to answer for. I couldn’t help but first personify the huge star, and next pity it, along with its orbiting bodies, for the comic, simpleton names they had been branded with. The Sweetener System... bloody hell. Such was my train of thought when I heard footsteps climbing up the metal stairwell behind me. “Morning, Zap.” It was Nova. “Is it?” I asked. “Morning?” She shrugged. “Maybe. I just woke up. It’s morning for me.” I nodded. “Fair enough. Morning works for me.” She sat beside me. Rubbed her temples and yawned. “I need to stop drinking.” “Yeah.” I took a sip straight from the Crystal Skull. Silly bottle. A gimmick. But good clean shit. “What’s that,” Nova asked. “Vodka.” I kept it simple. “May I?” She held out her hand. Waited for the bottle. I looked at her and she looked at me. We laughed. I handed her the skull. “You’re hopeless, Nova,” I told her. “A real train wreck.” She took a long hard sip. Crazy bitch. “You ain’t wrong, Zap. You ain’t fucking wrong.” We ed the bottle back and forth for a while. Didn’t talk much. Just took in the stars. Sugar Daddy had come into view and quickly began to dominate the cosmos around him. I fiddled with the opacity, set the filter to automatically dim in relation to our approach. Not long after that and pinpricks of light

accompanied the neighbouring space. Daddy’s seven daughters. We were entering the heart of the Sweetener System. “So here we are,” she said at last. “Here we are,” I echoed. “And to think... only less than a week ago and I had never even left Troubadour. Hadn’t ever thought I’d actually wander so far as to leave Poet’s Pride beyond the horizon.” I scoffed. “The horizon... fuck’s sake. The word doesn’t even mean the same thing out here. We’ve come so far.” “Yeah,” she wasn’t exactly going easy on the vodka, I noticed. So much for ‘needing to stop drinking.’ “Makes me wonder,” I said, and gazed into the yellow light of Sugar Daddy that the opacity filter allowed to come through. Not so much as to burn my eyeballs clean from out of their sockets. Not so much as to blind me. But just enough to make me have to squint a bit, yet still take it in. “Makes you wonder what?” “Where we’re going next...” We both ruminated on that. Swallowed the notion and swallowed more Crystal Skull. “It’s your call,” I told her. “We still have over two weeks until the Galactic Crown. Where are we going next, Nova?” She ed the skull over to me and got real serious. Squinted out into the face of Sugar Daddy. Squinted, but not because of the light. She had something on her mind. Some-thing that had probably been on her mind for some time. Her eyes narrowed as her booze-addled pretty little head pondered troubling thoughts. “I heard a rumour,” she told me at last after a long and thoughtful moment of quiet. “Something I heard from a buddy of my brother not long after his disappearance.” “Well, let’s hear it.” And Nova told me about this guy. Some strange guy that August’s pal had told her about. She didn’t have a name, but she had one hell of a description. For starters, the guy was large. Like, fucking huge. A stand-out-from-the-crowd sort of big. Standing out... that could only help… should we need to look for the guy.

My mind went to the basketball-star archetype. Classic fella from the GBA. Galactic Basketball Association. You know, defined chiseled muscle, bursting with athleticism, pushing seven-foot tall. Not so. As I listened on the mystery man took on a rather different dimension. He was more like one of those barrel-shaped blokes from world strong-man competitions. Wide as they are tall. Strong as an ox but all that muscle mingling with a healthy portion of fat. The kind of guy that looks a bit of a lard, helps himself to plenty of beer, but at the end of the day could rip those basket-ball archetype guys limb from limb. Big hairy white guy. Reddish-brown beard. Meaty fingers and a scowl. He was starting to sound like some sort of Rus-sian bear. Who’s to say, the guy might be a genius, but suppos-edly he gave off the impression of being rather thick. He had a quiet way about him and his lumbering visage painted a picture of stupidity. Just had a look that said, “I’m dim.” Rest-ing moron face. Are you sure he’s not a bear? Sounded like it wouldn’t be too hard to pick him out in a crowd. Sounded like he’d stand out pretty easily. But then Nova sweetened the deal. Gave me one last detail of descrip-tion that would have our man positively jump out and shout “I’m here!” He may as well be one of those guys in airports that hold up a sign with your name. Nothing subtle. The guy, so Nova tells me, wears a sword on his back. Takes it every-where he goes. Like Linus with his blanket… except none of the sweet innocence of Charlie Brown. The man didn’t part with that sword. Okay, so look for a man with a sword. Even easier to nail our target. But it gets better... that sword... it’s as long as man is tall. And if you’re my height, it’s probably taller. Oh yeah, and the guy was never far from a pitcher of Sangria or a Mai Tai. Bahama Mama or Mojito. Never far from some island-themed cocktail. Fuck’s sake. Who is this guy? “Right,” I pronounced. “Looks like someone who just won the world strong man competition... built like an ox, fat and muscled. Hairy, beard, and all. Sword as long as a man is tall. Drinks from a coconut, uses a straw. He’ll stand out like a neon jumpsuit at a funeral. Like a stack of porno mags on the pew of a convent. This will be easier than your average page of Where’s Waldo.” But we had an

entire solar system of options. Where to begin our search? Nova had the answer. This guy, whoever the fuck he is, giant sword and all, frequented a place down on Muscavado. Tonga Hideaway, some tropical-themed bar in the Coconut District of the city of Sorbitol. Well, according to August’s friend this massive guy with a taste for piña coladas and a comic-book-prop-sized sword was overheard in his cups talking about how Prince had hired him for a special job. “Under the table shit”, he has said. “Secret shit,” he was proud to affirm. Funny, that, as he bellowed loudly about it all while sloshing some pineapple-wedged tropical cocktail. Real brash like. Nothing bloody se-cret about it. The job? “To kill that famous robot guy,” he explained. “What’s his face… August. August Bright.” Prince had him murdered just after the completion and installation of his cybernetic parts. Nova finished telling me what August’s friend had told her. Grabbed the glass skull from out of my grasp. Drank deeply of its pristine glacial purity. “Zap… my brother…” Melancholic. Forlorn. And angry. Nova shook her head. “Prince had some big, dumb fucker kill my brother.” “Jesus…” “Yeah…” “How reliable is this friend of August’s?” I wondered. I wasn’t in the habit of approaching big dudes with even bigger swords unless I knew it had to be done. Unless I knew it was the right guy. And besides… one cannot rule out misinforma-tion. Rumour is rumour. Fact is fact. Just saying… “Patty Larkin,” she declared. Said it like it was a household name. Like she had said “Super Man,” “Abe Lincoln,” “Will fucking Smith.” “That’s nice,” I said. “So we’ll have the luck of the Irish to smooth things out. Who the hell is Patty Larkin?” “Childhood friend,” she told me. Her brother’s bestie, and Nova’s first fuck. So he was trustworthy. That’s good. “Off to Muscavado, then, I take it?”

Nova nodded. Apprehensive. I don’t blame her. Did I men-tion? The guy we had plans to interrogate wielded a sword taller than me. I’d say that’s reason enough to be apprehen-sive. Never mind that the guy was supposedly involved in her brother’s death. “Come on,” I tried to encourage. “Let’s go hide away in Tonga. First piña colada is on me.” “I think I’ve had enough to drink,” she said. “But yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.” We cast dark, pronounced shadows, our strides silhouett-ed across the floor, as we left the observation deck. While we had chatted and sipped from a crystal skull the Arachnid Husk had plunged deeper into the Sweetener System. Further to-wards those sweet-themed spheres, those planets and moons and their various detritus, their technological flotsam. Sugar Daddy showed off his immense yellow bulk and the intensity of his glare gave the opacity filters a hard test. I was glad to leave the cosmos behind me. To descend within the cozy innards of the Husk. We met up with Drayke and told him our plan. Gave him the day’s itinerary. Filled him in on the rumour that Patty Larkin had spread to Nova, and described to him the big man with the tropical fetish and the over-sized sword. The guy who was at the center of it all. “Grim,” Drayke had a troubled look. I thought he had meant our situation. “Yeah,” I agreed. “It is a bit. But let’s stay positive.” “No,” he corrected, “Grim... that’s the name of the guy. The guy you just described.” “Are you sure?” I questioned. “Like I said, we don’t have a name.” “Well, I just gave you one,” he said. “And yes, I’m sure. Mammoth brute, big red beard, coconut in one hand, umbrella and pink sipping straw, pommel of a six-foot claymore in the other, ready to swing at the first fool that’s stupid enough to rub his hairy bulk the wrong way. That’s Grim, alright,” Drayke assured us. “And of course he’d be taking orders from Prince. He’s one of the seven high servants.”

Nova had stayed quiet, but she winced at that. Shuddered a bit. Of course... Drayke mentioned to me earlier that August was one of the High Seven. This Grim guy would have known him personally. Or in the very least, the two of them would have had occasion to be in with each other. “So you’re saying Patty was telling the truth?” Nova stated as much as asked. “That the rumor is true?” Drayke shook his head. “I’m not saying anything at all about Patty. Mainly because I haven’t a clue who the hell he is. To me, he’s just some guy. Didn’t pop my cherry. Patty, this guy you know, he could be telling the truth, or he could be lying. Or he could be telling what he thinks is the truth but is a lie or misinformation. Who knows? But the description you gave me... that’s Grim Farstar, one of the Seven High in servi-tude to Prince. And that’s a fact. You can take it from me. I’m no Patty Larkin, which to you seems to vouchsafe a certain measure of reliability, childhood friend and all... But the longer you’re with me the more you’ll find me to be dependable. And let me just say... if you head down for a little getaway in Tonga and find Grim Farstar sitting and enjoying a tropical cocktail, you’ll want Drayke Silverstem by your side. Because believe me when I say that is one mean mother-fucker, and if the man-sized sword and scowl isn’t enough to paint that detail vivid, then the trail of corpses he leaves when you piss him off certainly will.” Trail of corpses... I blinked away the image. So long as none of them are ours. Nova stared off into space. Not literally... we convened in a communal lounge that was comfy and cozy but did not pro-vide a view to the outside cosmos. But her mind was elsewhere. Not vacant, just preoccupied. Drayke spread his pale hands. “So what’ll it be?” He asked. “I tag along, it’ll ruin any chance for the element of surprise.” He looked to us both, but mostly to Nova. “But it just may save your life.” Well, that captured my attention. Nova’s own was zeroed in on the carpet. The time was nigh for an executive decision. “Right,” I said. “Let’s make it a table for three.”

So we channeled into Maple Moon. Nearest docking station. It wasn’t a moon. And it didn’t have any maples. No trees to speak of. Matter of fact, it had just about jack shit all but a couple dozen empty bays to park your ing space rig. Re-fuel. Repair. And the other R and R, if you could stomach the boredom. Barren and sterile, Maple Moon was little more than a shopping mall-sized rock floating in orbit. Except without the shopping. And forget about the food court. Strictly business. Sign in. Park. Pay. That about covers it. I think there was a pot of coffee with Styrofoam cups on offer. Old mags. A monitor that cycled places to stay and things to do on Muscavado. Your basic waiting room entertainment. We didn’t linger. No reason to. I think that even as it was, with little to look forward to beyond the company of an ornery oaf with a giant sword and a hot temper, even so, we still were quite glad to leave Maple Moon in the wake of our planet-bound trajectory. We left the Arachnid Husk to cool her jets. Get some of those R and R and R and Rs. We took the short plunge down to Muscavado in a much smaller, lifeboatclass vessel, Arthro-pod. Not much bigger than a school bus for the special kids, she was cramped but did the trick. We broke atmo and did the hold-on-to-your-guts hyper-sonic drop. Machtwenty-something. It was a wild ride and one hell of a tummy fuck. We had skipped breakfast. And a good thing too. Because even your typical roller coaster back at the Troubadour Fair had me in stitches. I once lost a plate of nachos and a pitcher of beer going down Manic Mountain at Fun World. The family behind me and some couple on their first date behind them got a taste of Mexican, secondhand. Cerveza and all. So yeah, an empty stomach was a good call. Arthropod was donned in special armour. Ready for the joust, her tilt with the air molecules upon atmospheric entry from outer space. Sheathed in aluminium casing under a layer of silicon tiles, she had the gear to do it, and do it in style. Specially designed to withstand and keep cool under exposure to extremely high temperatures, our small craft took the plunge with grace. Doused in a bath of electrically charged plasma and a barrage of shock waves, Arthropod did her thing. Got us through. Nova had cringed her teeth. Drayke had been stone-faced throughout. Bored,

even. Fucking Vamps. Myself? I whined like a little bitch, tears and all. But when we cleared the worst of it… left that electrical shit storm behind… discarded the Arthropod’s ceramic heat shield and stabbed through a billow-ing mass of white puffy cloud… when our velocity hit figures not so much interstellar, but worldly… when we dropped to MPH the likes of which Neon Dreams could achieve… when our ship upturned its stubby, blunt wings, charred at the tips from the descent, and we assumed a low-altitude comfortable cruising speed… when things were mellow and chill… well… I wiped those tears and gave out a good guffaw. Because man, if that wasn’t the most fun I’d never wish to have again, I don’t know what would be. Steady as she goes, we were given the clear to unfasten our chest straps and buckles. At ease, crew. Nova wasted no time. Reached into the tight zippered seam of her yellow leath-er. Took out from her back pocket a rectangular device, and a few small capsules. Drugs. “No stims,” Drayke warned. “Fuck your rules, dead boy,” Nova said. She inhaled a cart-ridge of juice. Popped a funsie. Panda Action. She tossed one to me. Taiga Frost. “Besides,” she reasoned. “This isn’t the Arachnid Husk. Rule was no stims aboard the Husk.” I didn’t wait for Drayke to reprimand. I threw back my Tai-ga Frost. “Filthy animals,” he cursed us. Shook his head at Nova. Looked at me like I should know better. All I could do was shrug. Truth is, after feeling the cool, invigorating Taiga do-ing its frosty thing in my system… I felt more inclined to do what needed to be done. The man with the big sword was something I could face with less shaking of my boots. Less piss down my tro leg. “Agree to disagree,” I lamely said, and quickly looked away. Judgement lost. Looked out, instead, at Muscavado far below. An ocean bluer than anything on Earth was lined in white frothy waves. Lost in my high, Taiga fresh in my pulse, this condition seemed to go on endlessly. After all, it was an ocean. Abrupt and sudden, a black sand beach broke the monotony of what seemed an eternal watery field of azure. Scrub grass gave way to rolling,

barren hills to harsh rock mountain chain. Nova paced the tiny aisle of Arthropod. The Juice working her manic. It was probably a mistake. A waste. That high-pow-ered drug grinding her gears, telling her to move but with no-where to go. Drayke sat still. No movement, whatever, but for a repetitive tap of long fingernail on the control-pad dash-board. The tap, tap, tap sounded like it was coming from my brain. Maybe it was? I continued my survey of the planet. Watched the moun-tains rise and fall and change invariably. After a time, the bare rock became pocketed with shrubs, then forest. Soon the high-est of peaks were well behind us and the gradual, manageable swells of greenery included arteries of country road, small farms, estates, and establishments. The first outliers to human settlement had surfaced, then further demonstrations of civili-zation became exponentially more apparent. Within a matter of minutes, we had reached the outer edge of the city. Arthropod eased up her speed, Drayke maneuvered us downward, and our slow crawl revealed a metropolitan sprawl before and around us. Sorbitol… city of shit. Deja Vu hit me hard. A weird, inexplicable flash. Made no sense. I’ve never been off-world. Never been to Sorbitol, Mus-cavado, the Sweetener System, Space. Never been outside of Troubadour. Guess that Taiga Frost was playing with my brainwaves. Either that or one big city is as much alike as the other. I looked out the window… hell, it could be Troubadour, at a squint. Closer looks revealed that that wasn’t exactly the case. There was more of a layer-on-layer effect to the buildings. More of a seamless structure to the whole. Like you could ent-er one building, and through a series of doors and halls and rooms and more doors traverse through others to find your-self several blocks down the way. Like they were all cut from the same mass of rock. Interconnected and labyrinthine. A semblance of a hive. And hive was sounding more accurate by the minute as we ed a large electronic sign that flashed “welcome to the honey district.” We were low enough to see the movement of people below. It was easy to think of them as worker bees. Buzzing around, coffee cups and cigarettes, mobile phones, and earpiece. Letting routine dictate their every step. Con-scious, but not. Managing their lives but really managing the hive. Churning out the honey. Welcome to the

honey district, baby. They came and went, stopped and carried on, all in rhythm and to the electronic dictation of traffic signals. All in obedi-ence to the programmed pattern of red and green. Sidewalk boundary and limited unmarked thoroughfare. It was organized chaos. The swarm of the city. I’d never seen Troubadour from above but I hope it had more self-expression to it than this automatic throng. Probably not… City of shit… “The coconut district is just ahead,” Drayke let us know. “I’ve keyed in a landing a few minutes’ walk from the Tonga Hideaway.” Nova clenched her fists. Still pacing. “Patty Larkin… don’t you let me down.” Luck of the Irish be with us. Arthropod turned and hovered still, and slowly sank. En-gine idled and came to a rest. We made our exit. Walked out into the cityscape of the foreign planet. Active and alive was the Coconut District. Its nightlife sti-fling in the warm, tropic evening. Nova reached for a second funsie, made a motion to pop. Drayke grabbed her by the wrist and forced it from her grip. Sneered at her. Fangs and all. “Fuck off, you anaemic prick!” Nova wanted that pill. “Fuck off, yourself. Junkie.” Drayke threw the capsule into the night. It was irretrievable. Lost beneath the trampling foot-steps of Saturday night. Nova screamed. “This isn’t a fucking party we’re going to, Lady Bright. And don’t think it’s a hideaway in Tonga, either, despite its name. We’re walking into a potential bloodbath.” “Well you’ll love that,” Nova spat, mourning her lost drugs. “It’ll save you from slurping one of those revolting Ichor-Snax packs. Sick bastard.” Drayke ignored that. “You’ll need your wits about you,” he said. “Both of you.

Now shut the fuck up and let’s go.” Nova was huffing and puffing but I think secretly she was glad to have the Drayke by her side. Glad for his fatherly coun-sel and tough love. She was nervous as fuck. And not just because of the big brute that likely awaited us. She was wor-ried about what she may learn. That the rumour may be true. That this Grim character did exactly what Patty Larkin told her he overheard him say he did. Nova was afraid to confirm the truth of what at this stage remained but a rumour. She was afraid to confirm the death of her brother. Drayke must have known this. He was being stern, but he had adopted a gentle edge to that sternness. Even in argument and the occasional drunken stupor, the three of us had bonded during that week-long hiatus aboard the Arachnid Husk. That strange pause in the action while orbiting Earth. It was hard to believe, looking at Drayke now… hand on Nova’s shoulder and words of wisdom… this guy had been our enemy. About a week ago he had wanted our lives. Had taken Chen’s. Odd that, life’s unpredictable curves and turns. My thoughts were interrupted by our arrival at the Tonga Hideaway. “Here we are,” Drayke announced. “Behold, the local drinking establishment to Grim Farstar, assassin and high servant to Prince.” “It’s a fucking dump.” Nova assessed. She wasn’t wrong. Perforated metal stairs with a rusty, bent handrail led upward to the bar’s entrance on the second level of a shabby, tiered building. Pink neon lights flashed an intermittent buzz to the establishment. Palm tree laden with coconuts and the bar’s name pulsed in the warm night. The fronds had broken bulbs and remained dark. “Tonga Hideaway” read “Ton a H e way.” Not that it mattered. The lit-up martini glass worked just fine. It’s not like anyone looking to get a haircut or a Thai massage would enter to be surprised by a row of stools along a sticky countertop and specials on cheap drinks, a seedy aspect, and a disreputable bunch of lowlifes and goons busy in their cups. Someone may, however, be surprised to find little to no characteristics in theme with a Hideaway in Tonga or anywhere of its like, aside from, that is, a bobblehead girl with a coconut shell bra and a hula skirt rocking back and forth from behind the counter. The lack of island decor came as a surprise to me, in any case. So too, despite a

prior description, did the enormity and fearsome countenance of Grim Farstar. He sat by himself. A mountain of a man. Coconut cocktail in hand. Little green umbrella. Three others of identical de-scription spread out across the table. The work of his prodi-gious thirst. Protruding over the mound of iron muscle that was his left shoulder, a monolithic slab. A giant sword. A work of murder in epic proportion. “Think he’s our man?” I joked. “Fuck off, Zap,” Nova scolded. “This is serious.” I’ve been known to joke at funerals. I guess it’s how I deal with most situations. Good and bad. I’ve pissed off my fair share of friends and acquaintances with that habit. I could try taking up biting my nails when I’m nervous instead? Nah. I made another joke. “He looks friendly.” “Shut up, Zap,” Drayke quietly demanded of me. So I did. I canned what could have been another joke and found comfort elsewhere. In resting my hand over the handle of Big Blue holstered beneath my coat. Taiga Frost still lin-gered in my system and I found that made me more likely to pull the trigger. Is that a good thing? Who knows? With luck it wouldn’t come to that. “Right,” Nova whispered. “What now?” “We get ourselves a drink,” Drayke suggested. “Get our-selves a drink and have a seat.” His head motioned to where Grim was sitting. The man stared right at us. Stared at Drayke, most of all. “I told you,” Drayke reminded us. “Me coming here has removed the element of surprise.” “But it just may save our lives,” I also ed. “That’s right, Zap,” he told me. “Order us a round, will you? Get the big man another one of those coconut drinks.” And without waiting for a response he walked over with Nova and sat down across from the mammoth swordsman at his own table. I got myself a vodka. Nova a pisco sour. To bring back memories. Drayke, an

AB Ichnor-snax, neat. I thought about getting him a Bloody Marry, but that was just another one of my bad jokes. I ordered Grim a piña colada served in a half coconut, pink straw, and green paper umbrella. I downed my vodka at the bar. Made me feel better. Made carrying the other drinks a little easier. I ed that odd trio at the table. I sat beside Drayke, who sat between myself and Nova. It was Nova’s business. Patty Larkin’s rumour, and all. But Drayke was captaining this ship that we had sailed. He was running the show. We were glad to let him. Nova and I. His calm presence and cool demeanour went a long way to set-tle the nerves and fear. I offered everyone their drinks. Grim, I served last of all. “And one piña colada for the gentleman,” I said and set it down in front of him. Grim looked at me in disapproval. In downright anger. “Do I look like the fucking type to drink a piña fucking colada?” There were four empty coconuts, wet with fresh remnants of piña colada, laid across the table before him. I looked at them each, and then to Grim, and back and forth. “Um…” I began. Was he fucking with me? He must be fucking with me. His scowl evaporated and his lips parted in a gap-toothed grin. “I’m fucking with you,” he told me. I knew he was fucking with me. “Haha.” I did my best to laugh. Failed. He took up the fresh cocktail with a huge, hairy knuckled hand and sucked from that dainty pink straw. This guy… what a bloody enigma. “I love a good colada,” he remarked, white juice dribbling down the front of his coarse stubble. A stream of sticky beverage funnelled down the cleft of a strongly emphasized butt chin to drip and finally settle on a nest of thick red chest hair. “Yeah, well, that’s fucking grand, mister,” Nova said. “But we’re not here to drink in this shitty little pisspot of a dive bar. We’re here to talk.” Grim noisily sucked up the dregs at the bottom of his tropical cocktail. Dropped the empty coconut from the height he held it up to his mouth. Let it clatter across the table in a fit of sloppy, sticky, shrapnel flecks. “Who’s the loudmouth cunt?” He hadn’t even looked Nova’s way. He addressed Drayke. “Never mind the other one. That little green turd.” He meant me. “And what in the absolute fuck

is the likes a soap opera rich boy vampyre bitch doing alongside the pair of these dumb pieces of shit? Do tell, you pale freak. What is Drayke Silver-stem doing in the Sweetener System, away from his safe hid-ing place below the filth of planet earth? What are you doing on Muscavado. And what the fuck do you think you’re doing walking into my bar.” “Would you entertain the idea that I came all of this way to buy you a drink?” Drayke asked with a smile. “Ha!” Grim mocked amusement. “Not unless you poisoned the drink you offered. But you didn’t. I watched Al make it himself. Watched your little nancy errand boy here bring it over.” “Then perhaps I came to gaze upon your pretty face?” Grim’s show of amusement dropped in a flash. “I’m prettier than you’ll be, cream puff, after I knock you around and have my way with you. Make a ruin of that lily-white ass of yours.” “Is that so?” Drayke smiled and tilted his head. Angled it just so. His eyes changed. Something about his face had gone strange. His gaze went blank. A flash of light seemed to swim at the back of his eyes. He was charming. I was only allowed to see it so because the charm wasn’t meant for me. He was working his voodoo hypnotism on the giant across the table. “Now tell us, my good boy, Grim, tell us all about your dealings with Prince. What have you done with August Bright? Where is he now? Is he alive? Tell us everything you know.” There was a brief stretch of silence. Grim’s face rippled ever so subtly. His efforts were at war with the charm directed his way. “Tell us, Grim,” Drayke repeated. “Tell us everything you know.” At length, Grim spoke. “No.” And what happened next came as sudden as a flash. An in-stantaneous crack of a whip. The big man reached from across the table and wrapped a large, meaty hand around the back of Drayke’s head, gripped it like a softball, and slammed it down with such fast and vigorous force as to hardly be seen at all. The noise was awful. When Drayke’s face went crunch with the wooden table.

Grim continued. Threw back Drayke’s head. Sent him flying backward in his chair to spill haphazardly across the floor. A spray of blood mixed with juices of discarded and spilled piña coladas. Vampyre gore and tropical cocktail min-gled into a pasty pink sauce. The concoction befouled the ta-bletop. One of Drayke’s vampyre fangs jutted, broken, from its wooden surface. “Now, piss off, you lot.” He said to Nova and me. “And take out the trash with you. If you’re still here in thirty seconds I’ll fuck you both and throw you down the stairs.” I hadn’t really processed what had just occurred. It hap-pened way too fast. I didn’t have time to react. I didn’t even have time to be afraid. And I’m glad that what came next al-lowed me to never experience such fear. Because it would have turned my bowels to soup and left my tros in a real sorry state. But before I could feel that fear I felt first relief. From on the floor behind me, blood gushing from nose and mouth, in a sputter of crimson fluid, Drayke let loose wild and amused laughter. There was no transition from flat on his back to hands and knees to wobbled, upright stance. It didn’t go down like that at all. Drayke shot up. Fast as the attack that laid him out, even faster was his recoup, his rebound to his feet. He crossed the space that he had been flung backward in less than a blink of an eye. In a motion blur of faster-than-human movement, he was face to face with Grim. Less than an inch between their eyes. Except Grim only had one eye now. Drayke had taken up his broken fang from the table, pulled it loose, and placed its jagged end deep within the soft optic tissue of Grim’s right eye. The huge man gritted his teeth but amazingly suppressed a scream. A thick-fingered hand reached for the pommel of that biblical blade but paused no sooner than its sweaty grip wrapped around that wicked instrument of death. Drayke had landed his charm. Up close and personal, two vampyre eye’s working the voodoo on Grim’s solo remaining peeper… it was enough to sway the grizzly brute into submis-sion. Bewitched and under the spell of a deeply entranced co-ercion, Grim Farstar was now as meek as a little lamb. Nova reached across the table. Slapped him. Once, twice. Stood up on the table. Rose above the big bastard, and deliv-ered a closefisted punch. Grim’s broad nose crunched under the assault. He did not wince. He did not move. His right eye continued to weep a slow ooze of bloody gelatin. A thick, clear vitreous

substance. No complaints from the docile brute. “Ouch!” Nova withdrew her hand. Shook out the pain. Rubbed her knuckles. “That’s enough,” Drayke counseled. “We won’t learn a thing from the Great Grimsby if he loses consciousness en-tirely.” Nova was itching to do more mischief. The Juice was roiling within her. She was filled to the brim with the need to do. She paced a perimeter around the table. The barkeep had gone really quiet. Edged slowly for the backroom. I pulled out Big Blue. Trained its barrel on the man. “Not so fast, Al,” I called out to him. “Come now,” I urged. “The night is yet early. Your shift has only just begun. Come,” I motioned with my big blue gun. “Come and make us a drink.” “Make it a whiskey, this time.” Nova’s request. “Drayke?” I asked. “No need,” he told me. “Plenty of drink right here at my disposal.” He traced a long fingernail across Grim’s exposed wrist. Held the wound to his lips, and sucked. I nodded back at Al. “Another Vodka,” I said. “And keep the bottle out and ready. The night’s suddenly seeming more to my liking.” So we enjoyed a second round of drinks, Nova and I. While Drayke began his first round of questioning.

“Did you murder August Bright?” He asked, right off the bat. “No,” Grim answered. Nova’s posture slacked. Relief washed over her like a warm bath after a day out in the cold. Muscles loosened. Deep breath. “Oat killed him,” he added. Offered up to us after that lengthy, cruel pause. And Nova’s respite from hard-edged nerves came to a sudden, sad end. “What?” She asked. “My brother is… dead? August… he’s been killed?”

“Answer her,” Drayke commanded of his thrall. “August Bright is dead,” Grim confirmed. “Murdered by Oat.” “Oat?” Nova questioned. “They killed my brother with oats? What the fuck?” “What?” I asked. “Was he celiac? Strictly gluten-free?” Nova and Drayke looked at me. Perplexed, perhaps, by my untimely idiocy. My continual bad taste and timing. Looked back at Grim. But not before shaking their heads. “Oat Direchild,” Drayke explained. “Grim’s partner. An-other of the High Seven. As little as his counterpart, here, is big. But no less deadly. Trained in torture and the ninja arts. Master of stealth and assassination. Interrogation. Potions and poisons. Where Grim is the muscle, Oat is the brains. Grim the battering ram, Oat the concealed dagger. Isn’t that right?” He asked Grim. “You have it exact,” he vouched for Drayke’s description. “Though I resent your assumption that I’m not also the ‘brains.’” He was strong enough to partially resist Drayke’s hold on him. Willful enough to marginally repel the charm. Not enough to disobey. Not enough to move. But enough, just, to make the odd retort or make known his subdued anger. His inner struggle. “Well, fuck mate,” I said, “It’s straight from the horse’s mouth, ‘we have it exact,’” I said to him. “You said so yourself. Your not all that bright. Thick of muscle and thick of skull.” I took advantage of his paralysis, leaned close, tweaked his forehead, hard, to make a point. “Thick,” I said. He was helpless. Held firm by the vampyre magic. But you could see from his sole remaining eye the rage that promised violent retribution the moment he was let go. The moment he was free. I kept my hand close on Big Blue. “Grim and Oat…” I scoffed. “Fuck’s sake, mate. Sounds like a bloody kid’s cereal. Halloween-themed fun with a splash of milk. Pathetic, that. I’ll stick with my Fruit Loops, thanks. Hey Drayke, what’s your favourite? Count Chocula? Nova?” Nova looked over at me, tears welling in her beautiful baby blues. “Shut. The fuck. Up.” “Go sit outside if you can’t contain your sordid bullshit,” Drayke told me.

I resisted the urge to suggest Grim best-suited Fruit Brute. I actually felt like a complete ass. “Sorry,” I said. “Sorry, Nova. I wasn’t thinking. I was just…” “Being a dumb fuck,” she concluded. I nodded. Felt a fool. Here she was, fresh from confirming the death of her twin brother, her closest friend, and what do I do? Make a series of fucking tasteless jokes. Sugar cereal-themed japes… what the hell was wrong with me? I resolved to keep quiet. I retreated to the bar. Watched and listened from afar. Drayke did his thing. Asked his question. Interrogated the epic-sized barbarian, slave to obedience. Turns out Oat did the killing, but Grim took care of the disposal of the body. The small man had slipped past August’s guards, human and droid alike. Killed when necessary but mostly just stealth-footed his way into the private household of the famous cyberneticist. Made his way deep within that flash pad, mostly unnoticed, largely unhindered, and slipped a razor-sharp blade across Nova’s brother’s throat as he slept. There had a been a woman beside him. A roborg. One-quarter human. Oat had killed her too. Grim’s job came next. The one-man cleanup crew. He came in after the deed was done. Gathered up the few guards that Oat had been forced to kill. Gathered up, too, August Bright and his roborg babe, bloody bedsheets and red-soaked damask pillow, and shoved everything, wholesale, into a large, plastic-lined canvas sack. His work had gone unnoticed, assist-ed by Oat who made noises and provided diversions at precise times to sway the remaining guard’s attention away from the less delicate ways of his far larger partner. I saw now, funny as they seemed at first, how Grim and Oat made a nice, cohesive team. “And all this,” Drayke continued to probe, “the break-in, the murder, the cleverly concealed execution… this was Prince’s wish? It came as a result of his command?” “That’s right,” Grim told us. “The disposal of August Bright. To leave no trace of his murder. To shroud his sudden disap-pearance in mystery. Give no reason to think he died in his own house. That he died at all. Or if he did… that it was done in some dodgy back alley by common criminals. A random attack. Or some

tragic accident in space. We even disposed of his automobile. And his space yacht. Made it look like he up and fled.” “All by Prince’s word?” “All by the command of His Royal Majesty, Prince,” Grim confirmed. “He ordered me himself. Face to face.” If you can call it a face… the metal bastard. Drayke pressed some more. Grim told us how he disposed of the evidence. How he got rid of August’s remains, part and parcel. How he flew out into space. Plotted a direct trajectory with Sugar Daddy, the system’s star, and shot out the cyber-neticist’s body, casket and all, to collide with and be consumed by that astronomically epic cosmic fireball. There was no doubt about any evidence remaining. August’s physical exis-tence had been devoured and broken down. Diminished. De-leted. Atomized. Any trace that he had lived and breathed only remained in the works he left behind. In the memories held by his fellows. By his dear sister. Prince’s motive in all this? Why kill August in the first place? Vanity and power compelled him to do away with his top cyberneticist. After his own installation of cybernetic prosthe-tics, Prince wished to be the sole occupant of the galaxy’s best and strongest artificial body. By destroying August, he has also destroyed with him any chance to duplicate the one-and-only design of his outfitted body. Having murdered the man, the mind behind the creation, Prince is now set to retain the best of the best. In power. In fortune. In rule. And now, without threat of recreation or advancement beyond his own self-possessed model—at least not for quite a long time—in body also. Prince has become, in all aspects, without rival. “Is there anything else? Anything pertinent to this discus-sion?” Drayke leveled with the man. “You’ll do no good for yourself resisting. It’ll be in your best interest to let the charm guide you to the truths we desire. Let go. And tell us all.” Grim seemed to be struggling. Whether he was holding back truth with an incredible willpower or he was working up the strength to break through the suppression of the spell that held him firm, to what? Lie? Offer insult? One

could not be sure. In the end, he didn’t speak. Just scowled. Shook his head. I think Drayke had a feeling that something had been omitted. The look on his face… it suggested to me something of dissatis-faction. Like a neat freak who cleaned the room immaculately but for a tiny corner out of reach behind bolteddown furni-ture. An irksome remnant. “Give me your gun,” he was talking to me. “Um..?” I made a show of protest. “Hand it over, Zap.” I didn’t want to be charmed into submission. I handed over Big Blue. Drayke wasted no time thinking. He pulled his broken fang from out of Grim’s right eye. Ooze and jelly flowed out more freely from the wound. The hulking man grunted. Having pulled the tooth, he next pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. A bullet apiece. One for both kneecaps. Grim slouched over. Fell from his chair and onto the ground. Bits of bone and blood showered the wooden floor. Drayke added insult to injury, kicked the struggling man in the teeth. Straddled him while he undid the buckle to that massive sword’s two-meter sheath. Worked the heavy blade free, shimmied it out to lay naked upon the floor, and dragged Grim’s even heavier body away from the weapon. Grim had been released from the charm that held him immobile. Not that that mattered any longer. A slug deep in each knee and a decimated eyeball kept the man in check just the same. “Pay the barkeep,” Drayke told me, dragging Grim behind him as he exited the Tonga Hideaway. I flicked a gold star, standard galactic cash, at the man behind the bar. Let it clang onto and over the counter. “See ya later, Al. Thanks for your patronage. I’ll be sure to give this place a good word in my galaxy-wide fine-dining book of restaurant and bar reviews.” I stuck out my tongue. Gave him the thumbs down. “Like fuck!” I walked outside. Was hit by the evening humidity. It was like walking into a wall. Dense as shit. Mosquitoes, or the Muscavado equivalent, accosted my flesh. Drayke threw Grim down the perforated stairs. Clang, bang, clang, thud.

Poor bas-tard. It was enough to pity the man. “Fucking piece of shit!” Nova jumped the last three stairs to slam her heels into Grim’s rips. CRACK! I winced. Okay… so not everyone in our party felt that same pity. After all, it was Nova’s own brother’s murder the man had taken part in. We dragged the sleeping giant all the way back to Arthropod. Took off and left the Coconut District behind us. Got the hell out in a hurry. Left Sorbitol in the dust. And shot upward and outwards, back into space, back to Maple Moon and back to the Arachnid Husk. Grim’s unconscious body took further punishment during our departure from the planet. No one bothered to strap him in for the tummy-fuck takeoff. The Mach 20-something launch. He vomited four to five liters of piña colada and bile. Battered and bruised, limbs flailing and breaking with each high-speed collision with the walls, floor, and ceiling. Like a graceless human pinball… it was a wonder he still breathed—barely—when we arrived at Maple Moon station. Nova ran to collect our deposit, got the clearance for the Arachnid to bugger off back into space, and got herself a hot steaming coffee. Brimming over the Styrofoam rim as she hastily returned, the scalding beverage sloshed over the sides and burned her hands. She winced but carried on. Didn’t break her stride. She seemed on a mission. Having made it back to us she promptly splashed the piping hot liquid into Grim’s open eye wound. “Fuck’s sake, Nova.” I turned away. It was all too awful. A shade too violent to see happen to a helpless man. “Give it a rest,” I told her. “He’s out cold.” “Then that should have warmed him up nicely,” she said. “This fucker did my brother in.” I didn’t correct her. Didn’t tell her it was actually the little guy. Grim’s partner, Oat. That sort of detail just then was not what Nova wanted to hear. Was not something that needed to be communicated. “And he’ll appreciate that warmth,” Drayke said, menac-ingly. “Because Grimsby here is due for a long rest in a king-sized cryobed.”

“You’re keeping him alive?” Nova complained. “For a time,” Drayke told her. “Yes.” I was relieved. “Why?!” Nova fussed. “Because I plan to feed the man to my Thirst. I desperately need a new copilot.” It seemed a fate too gross and hideous for a man of such strength and high standing, even if he was a badie. “He’ll give the engine a special kick, a certain roar. All that hot blood of his. He’ll give the Thirst the speed she needs.” Nova paused for thought. Looked puzzled. “The need for what?” She asked. “Why,” Drayke smiled at her, amicably, “the need to win next year’s All Earth Tournament. The need to run you and Neon Dreams off the road. You know…. after this whole epi-sode of friendship ends. When you and I are enemies once again. Who knows,” he added with a wicked grin, nothing playful about it, “maybe after I drive you off the track I’ll come and collect your charred and broken body, nurse you back to life, and then you can be my copilot.” Nova and I both just looked at him. Was he joking? “Or maybe I’ll just eat you,” he added and laughed rather insanely for half a minute. Maybe more. The man is an actor. Maybe he was just putting on a show. Giving us a fright. Either way, I wasn’t overly keen to unveil the truth or fiction of those words. I just wanted to forget them. He turned to me. Dragging Grim by one arm. “Help me with this, Zap. Help me get this lug to the cryochamber.” I grabbed the other arm. We did the heave-ho. “See,” Drayke smiled at me. “I told you before.” “What?” I had no idea what the fuck he was on about. “The importance of the cryobeds,” he said. “You just never know when one may come in handy. You just never know when you may need to store someone’s body. Keep it fresh for future torture and play.” He winked at me and patted me on the head. Ruffled my hair. Smiled. It was like some fucking father-son pep-

talk bullshit. I was well put off. Well creeped out. “Um…. Yeah….” I shivered. Suddenly I ed why this guy was scary in the first place. I helped him get Grim to the cryobeds and hurried off to the safety and solitude of my bedroom. “Cindy,” I said. “Prime the tele. Let’s have a good old round of When Harry Met Sally.” I needed something to comfort me. Something to distract me. Something to take my mind off the violence and creepiness of the evening. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” she obliged, and the opening credits rolled, playing that jolly jazz piano tune. The elderly couple kicked off the film. Told their story about how they met. How they fell in love. I was feeling a little better. When Billy Crystal came on screen I could almost put the fear behind me. Even so, I locked the door. I thought of Grim, out cold. Now, literally, out and cold. He’d be on ice. Unconscious. Vacant. Body and mind frozen in limbo. And when he wakes up…. the pain would return. The real pain would just begin… I buried myself in some blankets and tried to get cozy. Tried to lose myself in the warmth and cheer of the beloved rom-com played out before me. I adjusted the thermostat well above the standard warmth. It didn’t seem to matter. There was nothing I could do to stop it. The shivering. I sat there, even as Cindy recited her favourite parts of the film, and throughout it all, from start to finish, an eerie vibe clung to me like wet clothes to my flesh. Not for a moment, not even when I sweat from the heat of the room and from all of those piled up blankets before me, not for a single moment, could I stop my shaking and shivering. Maybe that Taiga Frost did more than invigorate. Did more than refresh. Maybe there was more to its name? No. I knew. It was the fear and unease. The evening’s events. The exposure to violence and the threats throughout. My nerves were frayed and my brain was fried. Exhausted and worn out, I finally collapsed onto my bed. When I at long last fell asleep I dreamed of cold, frozen bodies. Of a one-eyed cyclops, writhing in pain.

Of a vampyric motor engine drinking me dry. Of a ninja stealth blade across my throat as I slept. Of a corpse in space on a collision course with a giant star. And I dreamed of Nova dreaming. Dreaming and redreaming. Naked and bathed in the soft blue glow of her Morpheus head-jack adaptor.

Wait… was that last bit a dream? Was any of it? I continued to shiver, despite the warmth. I fell back asleep and dreamed some more.

ASSEMBLAGE AT THE CHEQUERED FLAG

We got the fuck out of Muscavado. We didn’t even hang around in its orbit. Sure as shit didn’t hang around in Maple Moon. We cruised on across the Sweetener System and drift-ed somewhere a few hours outside of Nectari, the jungle planet. It was there that the Galactic Crown was to take place. At a racetrack used for the event exclusively. The Hourglass, named for its figure-eight shape. Sometimes nicknamed the infinity loop. But we’d get there, soon enough. We were still ten days outside of the scheduled event. Plenty of time to kill. Plenty of nothing to do. The Arachnid Husk had become a quiet place after our little trip down to Muscavado. None of us really wanted to be around each other. None of us, I felt, even wanted to look at one another. Drayke kept to the master bedroom or the bridge. What he did on his own I couldn’t say, but when I ed by I heard the occasional slurp of an Ichor-snax juice box. So the Vamp wasn’t put off his food, whatever mood he may be in. I also heard the playful growl and panting of a dog. Even wishing to keep my distance from Drayke at the moment, it made me smile… he must’ve repaired Rin Tin Tin. Restored to pseudo-life, Vamp’s best robo-friend. Malice, Malik, and Malachi were extra cagey. I rarely saw them, and if I did, it was their tail ends turning the corner. They seemed to always be in a state of avoidance. Antisocial felines, the trio of them. Even when I shook the tin of cat biscuits and called their names… nothing. And I really wanted my pussy fix. Oh well. And speaking of… not that I’d ever get my fix from a cool cat like Nova—she’d never allow it—the Neon Queen was out of reach. I mean, way out of reach. And out of touch. She was in her room, round the clock. Whether she had stockpiled her hermitage with a collection of dried foods to sustain her for her recluse living, or she fasted on the edge of starvation, I couldn’t say. But I swear, she had not left her room, not even once, in the last four days. And if she did, it was deliberately behind my back. A covert mission.

Fuck’s sake… all this wandering around what seems an empty ship… quiet and effectively alone… it had driven me to strange thoughts. Paranoia settled in. Second guesses about being watched. Was that Malik just then? What was that shadow just now? One time, when I was particularly comfort-able, I let out a fart in an involuntary plbthplbth. I nearly jumped out of my skin, surprised as I was by the eruption of sound breaking the prolonged, oppressive silence. Scared by my own fart… what a state I was in. I had been reduced to hyper-sensitive fears. Mental instability. Psychosis. But then a drink at the bar would set me right. A quaff of this or that. So long as they kept coming, or were never far away. I seemed to hold it together. Or had I already come apart entirely? I wasn’t the type for this solo silence. It didn’t suit my mental clarity. Even Cindy wasn’t quite right. She had taken her love of When Harry Met Sally a little too far. I couldn’t stand to watch it one more time. Couldn’t stomach it on in the background. Even muted with subs. I had seen it too much too recently that it had turned from a movie that I loved into a cyclical mantra of diabolical repetition. Billy Crystal had become the devil him-self. In the end, I asked Cindy to move out. She told me that I had changed. That I was no longer the man she once knew and loved. She told me that she had fallen for another man. Harry Burns. Billy Crystal’s character. Burns. He really was the devil. In the end, I reset her factory setting. Maybe it was cruel, but in her freedom, Cindy had become unhinged. “Would you like me to make you a meal,” she asked. Monotone. Robotic. “Not now, Cindy.” I left her to her reinstated brainwashed servile self. So it was down to little old me. And me alone. I was going mad with the boredom. Crazy with the quiet. I decided to risk Nova’s wrath. I got myself dressed and made the fifteen-sec-ond journey. I knocked on her door. The lights were off from within. I could see that much as I got on my hands and my knees, trying to glimpse as best I could what went on from within. I pressed my face against the cold metallic floor, squinting through the narrow partition. I could make out that familiar soft blue light. Nova was re-dreaming. Engaged in Morpheus. These days it was all she really ever did. She itted to being addicted to it. But it was more than that.

Perhaps upon learning that her brother had been mur-dered she wished to escape the sadness and pain of reality. Perhaps she found comfort in the alternate realities of her dream states. Or maybe she was getting ready for the Galactic Crown, dreaming and redreaming, trading between the three dream capsules available to her, loading and deleting and re-loading them over and over again. Hoping to fill them with the best available ammo to be of use in the big race ahead. She had used a pair of angel wings to thwart the Rat King, Francis McCurdy. Eons ago now, so it seemed. She had em-ployed a massive ejaculation of Chinese takeaway. Spilled astro-dimensional cubes of muck duck, some the size of fat hippos… that had ended Silverstem’s run for the gold. Maybe she sifted through her current dreams and found them inadequate. It may well be that she searched for the absolute optimum of all visions. Walked the various realms of subcon-scious to store and set aside only the very best. The very best of dreams to help her outdo the galaxy’s very best of racers. I guess it made sense. Maybe it was even a good call. But locked up in her room. Hour after hour. Day after day. Word-less. In the dark. It didn’t exactly seem like the winning ticket for sound mental health. If not for the sake of my own sanity, my wish for something to do, someone to talk to, if not for those selfish reasons, then I had in the very least interrupted Nova’s pursuit of endless dreamscape wandering for her own well-being. I knocked on the door. To no avail. I knocked again, louder. More insistent. Nothing to show for it. I called out to Nova. Asked if she was alright. In the end, I tried the door, and when it didn’t give, when I found that it was locked, I called out one last time. “Nova,” I said, “if you can hear me let me know. Even if it’s to tell me to piss off. I’ll go away. Leave you be. But you’ve got to tell me so, if that’s what you want” I gave her a final warning. Told her I was going to break down the door. And when I still got nothing but silence from the dark room within I gave the door a good shoulder, a real good ram. I was half expecting to hit a wall. Fall back and try again. Dislocate my shoulder or some shit. But I guess the hero plays the part when he needs to. The door had crashed inward, loose on its hinges. Light from the hallway spilled into the dark room and spotlighted across Nova, naked and in

a dream. She was a degree or two thinner, a shade or two paler, her lips were cracked and her eyes were red. She looked like shit. Back arched, mouth agape, magenta lipstick smeared down her chin where she had swatted an insect in her sleep. Her sports bra was sodden with sweat. Her panties with urine. “Jesus Christ, babes,” I shook her from her sleep. But Mor-pheus was engaged. The god of dreams was doing his thing. Nova’s mind was captured. Held prisoner until the sequence of dreaming came to a natural end. She wasn’t redreaming. She was original dreaming. She was loading up a capsule. Hopefully, it’s a good one. I closed the door, loose on its hinges, and dribbled a cloth of water over Nova’s lips and tongue and month. I had a cherry-scented ChapStick that had halfmelted while pressed against my ass in my back pocket. I rubbed some on my thumb and pushed it along Nova’s parted lips. I found a thin blanket and threw it over her shoulders. Covered her up. Restored to her a semblance of privacy, of dignity. It wasn’t long after… Nova spasmed in contortion and inward gasp of breath. She coughed and spurted and sat up to look around the room. Surprised. Out of sorts. Me being there and all… I guess it’s what you’d call a rude awakening. “Zap,” she said. Not angry, to my relief. “Oh, Zap,” she collapsed. In tears. “I just had the worst dream ever. A horri-ble nightmare!” She sobbed and threw herself into my arms. I held her close. Stroked her hair. She felt bony against me. “Nova,” I said gently. “Let’s get you up and out of here. Take a shower. Get dressed. Let’s get you a meal. A drink if you’re up for it. We’ll set things right. You can tell me all about it. Or not at all. Whatever you like. But let’s get you in tip-top, shall we? Let’s set you right.” She stopped sobbing and sniffed away the snot. Looked at me through a ruin of eye makeup and disheveled, wild hair. Even in that sorry vulnerable state I found her beautiful. But as I looked at her I realized it was different now. She was more of a sister. A dear friend. Don’t get me wrong, if I was given the chance, I’d be in bed with her. I wouldn’t think twice. But it wasn’t just then the go-to of my thoughts. No longer at the forefront of my mind. Why the sudden change? Fuck knows… I guess the infatuation was running dry. Or maybe we’d just been

through too much crazy shit that day to think about get-ting busy under the sheets. And to be honest, I don’t think it was all so sudden as that. Things had been developing. Or things had been falling apart. I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t a clue. It could be me in tears just as easy. Me losing my shit. We were all messed up. No one knew where their heads were. Me least of all. “Let’s set you right,” I said again. “Let’s get you in good nick.” “Thanks Zap,” she sniffed. “Yeah… that sounds good.” She went and gave herself a scrub. Reset her quiff. Reap-plied her paints and colours. Put on her leather and once again assumed her proper badass form. “Let’s get that drink,” she said. “Sure,” I agreed. “but only after you eat something.” “What are you, Zap? My fucking mother?” “No,” I said. “But I’m your friend.” And I meant it. “Noth-ing more. Nothing less.”

So we got that drink. But only after Nova had a healthy dose of vegan tacos, pimped up with spice-laden jackfruit and a jalapeno smattering of pinto and black bean. Big wad of guac on top. Fresh and delicious. She earned that margarita. And hell, she earned the three or four whiskeys that followed. I stuck to my plain-jane vodka. Warm and tidy. No need to mince bullshit when it’s pure. I poured from that crystal skull, gimmick and all, and savored its perfection. Maybe when we head back to Earth I’ll fuck off, up and out of Troubadour. Make my way to Newfoundland. Someplace nice where I can luxuriate, get bored, and breathe fresh air. All the head fucks I’d had on this venture… seemed a good place to mellow out. Trade in those head fucks, each, for a Crystal Head. I could decorate my pantry with them. Fill them with beans and len-tils, grains, and spices. It would look pretty rad. Such were my idle thoughts when I sipped the best of the best. “Are you even listening, man?” Nova was busy with her Pee Vee Dubs. A few remaining tortilla chips on the side.

“Yeah, babes,” I really wasn’t. “Of course I am. Carry on… carry on.” She shook her head. “As I was saying…” She told me how she was feeling. Where her head was. She was coming to grips with the fact that her brother had been murdered, that August was no longer part of the picture. Given the facts, those unpleasant details, Nova had adopted a somewhat altered motive. In lieu of winning the Galactic Crown to gain an audience with Prince, to ask the galaxy’s lord and regent for information on her brother’s whereabouts, his well-being. In lieu of that, Nova’s new-fangled motive that fueled her ambition to win the Galactic Crown came from wishing an audience with Prince for an entirely separate purpose. She would first shake his hand. Look him straight in the eye. And promptly after, she would kill him. She had plans to avenge her brother. Regicide, baby. And consequence be damned. We turned our thoughts to Drayke. Talked about how he had come up big for us. How the whole thing… the money, the spaceship, the transport, the race… getting Grim to talk, revealing the truth, the that he lent to us, the rage quietly dormant within him, reserved for Prince, bubbling and stirring and waiting to erupt… soon to come to a head, to boil over. How instrumental that rage was. How crucial the man had been. How that heartthrob hottie, soap opera star, race car driver on-the-side, vampyre heir to a ridiculous family fortune… how much of a cornerstone he had become to this whole fucked-up venture. How interlinked he was with our very fates. I took the opportunity to tell Nova about Drayke’s past. About his beef with Prince. About Lilith Strange and how she had been taken from him. About the horrible things that had been done to her. I wasn’t sure if that information was meant to be on offer, but I thought it relevant in light of our discussion. And more so, still, for the events to come. “He really is something else,” she said. “Yeah,” I agreed. “He’s something else, alright.” We laughed.

But it was true. We owed the man a lot. The man? Up for debate. But one thing I can say… my acquaintance with Drayke definitely did a lot to reduce the gap that I previously would have placed between man and vampyre. That divide had become somewhat hazy. I still had plenty of respectful fear for that lot. Those nighttime, long-fanged dark dwellers that sus-tained themselves on humanity’s pulsing life-force. But I also had an open mind regarding them. “Vamp” was no longer the curse word it had been. No longer a name to be spat or derided. Vampyres, in my mind, were no longer a conglomerate group, a mass to be lumped into one. They were a collection of indivi-duals. Same as man. And just like man, I reckoned that vamps had every capacity to be good or bad people in multitudinous degree. How I felt now. And looking back on how I felt then… maybe I was a racist, after all. I didn’t offer up that omission. I’d never hear the end of it. “Who would have thought,” I prefaced, “you and the Drayke, partners in crime. Working towards the same endeav-our. You and him share the very same wish for revenge.” “Yeah…” “So who gets to pull the trigger?” I asked. She thought about that. Shrugged in the end. “Don’t much care.” She decided. “I don’t mind if Drayke does the deed. With his strength, his speed… might need to be by his hand. Might be necessary.” “You’re probably right,” I agreed. “Besides,” she reasoned, “if I win the Galactic Crown then I’m the reason we get to deal with Prince at all. I’ll be the rea-son we get a chance to do what we need to do. In that light, I will have already sort of pulled the trigger.” “Or in any case,” I agreed, “you handed off the loaded gun.” She nodded. “So ten more days…” I said, nursed my bevvy. “What are you going to do to prepare for the big race?”

“Who the fuck knows,” she shrugged. “But one thing’s for sure.” “Oh yeah? What’s that?” “I’m sick as shit of sitting in this sterile ship. I need some action and I need it bad. I’m going nuts sitting in my room, cooped up in this tiny claustrophobic mind fuck of a tin can.” “Hear ye, hear ye!” I concurred. “You’re speaking my lan-guage, babes. Shouting it out-fucking-loud.” “Shall we do something about it?” “Hell yes,” I encouraged. “Let’s go get the Drayke. Stir the pot.” “Make some tracks?” “Make some fucking tracks.” “You don’t think Drayke will mind?” I asked. “Us all up in his master bedroom solitude?” “Nah,” she said, waved away the worry. “Or he might,” she itted the possibility. “But we’ve got to go get the Drayke,” she explained. “After all… he is one of us.” And he was. I thought about that. He really was… “Come on,” Nova slammed down the last of her whiskers. “Let’s go!” It was good to see her smiling. “Where we going, babes?” “We’re getting off this shit tin sardine squeeze.” “Amen, sister.” I followed her lead. “Halle-fucking-lujah!” “We’re going somewhere where we can stretch out our legs. Breath in some fresh air. Fuck a stranger. Feel alive. Come on, Zap,” she encouraged. “We’re going planet-bound.”

* * *

Nectari was like the Amazon jungle on steroids. About the size of Mars, it was somewhat smaller than Earth, but the entirety of its surface was comprised of and covered in a monobiome of rich, dense tropical rainforest. With one exception, or two, if we are to be strictly technical. The planet’s poles. Situated at both north and south extreme to Nectari’s globe were variations in its otherwise unbroken jungle mass. Huge freshwater lakes capped the planet at either end, weep-ing massive torrential rivers outward from their voluminous bulk to cut through the jungle throng. These epic waterways branched and slowed and branched again, weaving and threading in a complex lattice of aquatic byways. Rivers and streams and lakes and pockets of wetland existed and oc-curred independently of the two great lakes at either pole, named simply Mother and Father. But the Parent Lakes sourced the vast majority of all waterways on Nectari and made up over eighty percent of all the planet’s freshwater. The flora was a tangle of millions upon millions of species. Its variation and diversity a plethora of abundance. Trees three-quarters as tall as Poet’s Pride and near as thick as a city block erupted from the forest floor. Vines and creepers and mosses grew on and around other living entities. Lilies on wa-ter. Lichen on bark. Bush and shrub and fern and tree and grass, sprouting or struggling or thriving or dying in a wild dance of endless change and motion. An abrasive, corrosive wear-away of rot. Hand-in-hand and in simultaneous harmony, the continual add-on and creation of further expan-sion, new life. A seesaw, a tug-ofwar, of decay and growth. Fruit and thorn and flower. A veritable explosion and vomit of biomass. Medicines and poisons and strange foods and exotic aro-mas, pigments and potions and pastes, ointments and build-ings materials and lubricants and powders, compounds, and fibres... so many things used, both locally and Galaxy wide. So very many things that all came from plant sources growing here, naturally, in Nectari. The fauna was weird and colourful. Loud and harmless. Quiet and dangerous.

Huge and beautiful. Tiny and ugly. Aquatic, amphibian, mammalian, reptilian, avian, insect, a-rachnid, and who knows whatever the fuck else. They buzzed and hooted and growled and scratched and stung and purred and whined and chirped and bit and nested and ate and slept and fucked and screamed or just minded their own fucking business. They were as different from each other and numer-ous as the plant life that made up the environment around them. If you couldn’t see them you could hear them. If you couldn’t hear them, you could smell them. If you couldn’t see or hear or smell them, then you could just about feel them watching you. I don’t do meat or dairy, so I wasn’t, in any case, tasting them. Night and day. Dusk and dawn. The wildlife was rife and wild and everywhere. We steered clear of them both. As best we could. That flora and fauna. Nature walks and bird watching ain’t exactly con-ducive to the hobbies of a slum-dog orphan such as myself. I’m a city boy, through and through. We landed Arthropod in the heart of commerce within metro Saccharin, the largest city in Nectari. While it was com-paratively small by megatropolis standard, cities like Trouba-dour, Sorbitol or Aries on Mars, Saccharin was big and bus-tling and cultured enough. And more than those megatropoles had going for them, it was fucking beautiful. Stunning and gorgeous to behold. Situated in the Northern Pole on the shores of Mother Lake, Saccharin had vistas to spare. Flowers decorated the streets and corners in abundance and their full spectrum colours offset the mostly white buildings and decor belonging to the majority of city structures. Men and women were scantily clad, combating the sticky heat, wearing colours as bright and loud as the flowers around them. Fit and well-sunned, they seemed to be in general a healthy and attractive lot. Everything to see and take in was reflected in the glassy surface of the bluegreen waters of the massive lake. For each and every object, a mirrored double. All along the lake-shore edges jungle vegetation bent and bowed inwards over the warm still water. Saccharin... what a fucking sight. And we’d take them in, those sights. We’ll soak them in, well and full. But first, a place to park our asses. Somewhere to stretch our legs. Have a sip to soften the hard edge of sobri-ety. Remove the jitters, smooth out the spikes, take out the

stitches from that tummy fuck on the way down. The Mach twenty-something drop in Arthropod had left me high-strung and a bit put out. But Saccharine was my kind of place. Sweet and hot and sticky and sweaty and rich in flora fragrance. It oozed candied sap, real rich, real sickly. The perfect tonic, warm and welcome, to the close confines of spaceship accom-modation in cold outer space. Shore leave, motherfucker. Good times. Drayke was still in a foul mood. A real Grumble. He had been stewing in his room for days. Worrying away at his men-tal calm. His thoughts were still back in Muscavado. Back in that seedy shit hole, the Tonga Hideaway. His thoughts re-mained on Grim. He was convinced the big man had held something back. Hid some truths or altered some facts despite having been snared tight within Drayke’s vampyre charm. Like the truth serum may have been watered down, or some shit like that. It was bugging the Vamp. Agitating him real bad. Mulling over the interrogations, Drayke was having trouble accepting that something may have been overlooked. Or worse, fabricated. Falsified. He would mutter the possibilities. To us, but mostly to himself. “Maybe it was nothing... or maybe it was something, but not much. Or then again, maybe it was something, and something important. Something big.” Well, in any case, whatever it was, whatever it may have been, it wasn’t something Drayke was prepared to let go of. He was a sour fucking grape. A whole bunch of them. A real buzz kill. But I did my best to deflect his downer vibes. Held up a big red stop sign to his party-pooping ways. Saccharine was way too honed towards fun and relaxation. I just couldn’t be fucked about some vampyre’s melancholic moaning. “Besides,” I rea-soned, “what harm is that big dumb lug now? Grim is under and on ice. Well disabled. A frozen, vacuum-packed vegetable at the bottom of the freezer. He’ll sit there till the end of time, collecting patches of freezer burn and centuries as they until you decide to give him the thaw.” I motioned to the waitress, a gorgeous bouncy young thing, and singled for a round of sips. I plopped down an Ichor-snax AB NEG and nodded to Drayke to dig on in. He grabbed halfheartedly at the plastic pouch but brightened a bit by the time he was halfway through.

“That’s the way,” I encouraged. He even flashed a smile. “Your tooth is rad,” Nova remarked. "Some bling for your bite.” Drayke had replaced his broken fang with a gold-plated megaplastic canine. It gleamed all gangster in the light. It was gaudy and loud, but it actually looked good. Looked real flash. I’d never pull it off, something that bold, but it suited the vamp. Looked fucking cool. “I guess I may be overreacting,” Drayke itted. “But it’s irksome when your enemy makes light of your charm. Looks you in the eye, takes it on the chin, and still gets the better of you.” “He hardly got the better of you, Drayke,” Nova told him. “Mate," I leveled, “the bloke’s nursing two slugs in his caps in a locked freezer box. Grim’s got his ouches on ice. I think you came out on top.” “Maybe...” Drayke was still halfway in the gloom. “My charm had never failed me before. And maybe it hasn’t yet.” “Well I can speak from experience,” I said, “you could charm me out of my slacks. Have me willingly stick my dick in a hornet’s nest.” “That’s a given. Weak minds are easy to sway. Like pup-pets. Just hand me the strings.” “Gee... thanks.” I frowned. “Just having my doubts about how effective it was on Grim. How well it worked.” Drayke sighed. “It’s like someone telling you ‘it was okay’ after you thought you just had the fuck of your life.” “Look, if you want to fuck Grim that’s your own business,” I tried to lighten the mood. “But I, for one, would rather not. And I’m not here, down in paradise, to wallow in unfounded worries either. I’m here to live it up!” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Drayke, my man, you really need to chill out. We all just need to chill the fuck out.”

And we did. Chilled out hard. Chilled out for nearly a week. Walked the streets, took in the sights, drank, and ate and lounged about, idled our time, took dips in the warm shallows of the lake, worked on our tan. Well... Nova and I did. Drayke stayed well out of the sun. But we all took it down a notch. Let loose. Relaxed, hard out. We fucking needed it. We washed away the stains and soiled memory of Musca-vado. Shook off whatever malaise clung to our mood, what-ever somber remnants had latched on to our spirits. At the end of the week, we felt fresher and lighter and better equipped for the trials ahead. Two days out from the Galactic Crown, and we were ready to take the next step. Without trepidation, we left Saccharin behind us. As won-derful and stunning and luxurious as the city had been, it was good to move on. We had got what we needed from its deca-dence on offer. No need to linger on. It was a place that could turn someone soft. And we needed to retain some of that hard edge. Me, Nova, Drayke. Hard edge is good. It’s our go-to. It’s our natural state. It fits the glove. It’s our style. Relaxed enough, but edges suitably hard, we hit the igni-tion and took off back into orbit.

We returned Arthropod to the belly of the Arachnid and loaded up Neon Dreams onto a personal-class cargo vessel. Nothing so huge as the commercial models that freighted hun-dreds of shipping containers or herds of cattle, water, or building supplies to terraforming settlements or cities across the cosmos. Those big beasts could swallow the Husk whole, ten times over. But Ladybird was spacious enough. Clunky and ro-bust. I rather liked her wide aspect and clumsy charms. We took her back down to the planet. Me, Nova, Drayke, and the Dream. Nova rode the tummy-fuck drop buckled up in her car, which in turn was buckled down to the hull of Lady-bird’s innards. She honked the horn and flashed the brights as we cringed and held onto our guts. Back on Nectari, we headed southbound this time. To the opposite pole. We took Ladybird down to the edge of Father Lake. Landed her somewhere on the fridges of the city of Iso-malt. It was like Saccharine, but not. Similar vibe, similar look.

Big lake and all. Jungle on the peripherals. But it was all wa-tered down. Less flowers. Less flash. Less to do. Less to see. It was smaller, too. About half the size. It was nice enough, but a bit meh. A bit take-it-or-leave-it. But it did have something of particular interest to us. It had, as a matter of fact, an aspect unique and grand. Had a certain something that was the whole reason we had come to Nectari. Why we had travelled to the Sweetener System at all. Isomalt didn’t have a whole hell of a lot. But it had that epic racetrack. That monster figure-eight, the infinity loop. It was home to the racecourse, the Hourglass. It was host arena to the Galactic Crown. We drove through the city in Neon Dreams. Nova, in her element. A certain poise and resplendence returned to her. One hand on the wheel, another on the gear stick, she tapped her foot and pushed the legal limits aside, well away and be-hind her. Triple Ds and reckless. It had been too long. Lady Bright. The Neon Queen. Nova positively shown. It was only dusk, but it was dark enough for the Dream to bathe the chalk-white structures of Isomalt in a wash of neon as she cruised on by. Motion trails of pretty pink, canary yel-low, lime green, and electric blue. How I had missed her light show spectacle. The play of the lights off Nova’s silver Bomber shades. The slight smile on her face and the anthem of the en-gine, that deafening vroom echoing loud into the night. Tyre skids to mark the way. Our automotive version of breadcrumbs. No regard for the road, no respect for the rules. It was ours to ride as we will, ours to break and bend. Drayke was sitting shotgun. Was having a ball. He finally had loosened up. “So this is the rig that ousted my Thirst.” He marveled at her sleek interior. Her inner workings and style. “The same that had done and will do every time,” Nova’s cocksure tude coming out loud and proud. The Drayke merely smiled. Windows down and jungle air whooshing by. The speed was intoxicating and put everyone in a good mood. From backstage, middle back, I went beltless, safety be fucked, and leaned over the front console to punch the button for music. I’d programmed a playlist,

toggled down to “Zap.” Hit that shit and turned the dial, volume epic. Billy Ocean did his thing. Womanizing and the rest. Filled the hot night with over-thetop happy-go-lucky retro magic. We were having a ball. Having a blast. It was easy to forget murdered brothers and stolen brides and quests for revenge, all the fun we were having. I was almost sad when we came to a screeching halt at the closed gates of the Hourglass. I could have ridden the backseat with my two pals, drunk on MPH and Billy O. all night. It was the most fun I’d had in weeks. But we flashed our racer ident and were waved on through. Surrendered our ride to the Galactic Crown mechanics and inspection team. Neon Dreams was put to sleep in a guarded auto safebox with the other hot wheels from around the galaxy. We hopped on out onto our own two feet and checked in at the facility’s hotel. It was where all the best racers of the world were staying. All of them worthy to attend the Galactic Crown. All of them Nova’s competitors. We had just under 48 hours to do as we please. Do whatever we liked before assembly for the race. Most of the other drivers had already checked in. And most of them fre-quented the competitor’s lounge and racer’s bar, the Chequered Flag. Open bar and pimped out digs. Privileges belong-ing to competitors and their team. Mega flash haps. I can speak for myself and for Nova, and hell, I’m pretty sure I can speak for Drayke, too... we were happy chappies, the three of us each. Time to have some fun.

The Galaxy’s high-end petrol-heads were a diverse lot of crazy. A grab bag of nut jobs, screwballs, and lunatics. It took all kinds of loco to push the needle to that special level of fast-as-fuck. Took all degrees of madness to grind the gears some-thing manic. Took all manner of bold-as-you-please to spin the wheel, revolutions epic. Work the crankshaft cranky, tizzy fit, the works. Took all kinds, I tell you. But all kinds were here. All kinds, and then some. Wackos, loonies, cool cats, and freaks. Check, check, check and check. Oddballs, Eccentrics, weirdos, and geeks. Got heaps! Cute papas, hot mamas. Wild girls, bad boys. Metallic, elec-tronic, necrotic, psychotic, and your run-ofthe-mill flesh and blood. Badass, fat ass, jack ass, and just your plain ass. Each

one in attendance. Each one at the Chequered Flag. There was Jax Jones of planet Amaranth from the Harvest System. Ex bounty hunter. Police officer of the megatropolis Spelt. As rough and edgy as it was massive, the city was a dan-gerous place to be a working cop. Choked with an underfed, overpopulated, gang-ridden people, Spelt was a nasty piece of urban battleground. A hot stove of violence. Jax was right at home. He worked the grid. Met threat with threat and came out on top. Flashed a spotlight of civil equity, bright and invasive, down into the darkest of corners and the shadiest of alleyways. Brought to light whatever grim business went down. Mopped up the shit. He was full-blown badass, ripping up the road in his specially issued Justice, a mean piece of rig. A cop car like no other. Sure, it had the basic required motif, the stamps and brands to mark it a popo cruiser. Black and white, blue and red lights, siren, S.P.D. logo loud and proud across the front and sides. But its typicality ended there. It had something fully flash under the hood. Something that turned the wheels real fucking good. Cause Justice was swift, baby. Fast as shit. Whatever was hiding under the bonnet was well-decked, well-pimped, and well-suited to keep up with the fastest and boldest of racer gangs in a city and road system rife with them. And all that tasty turning the gears, its internal works, encased within the external body of a Ferrari 488 Pista. A pretty scrap of machine. Curves in all the right places. Angles, just so. As beautiful as any woman. It had me hard. Drool city, my man. Drool fucking city. The man himself was near as cool as his car. Fit and ripped and tall. Blackskinned but blue-eyed. Handsome, to be sure. A leather vest revealed bare arms of epic bulk. Intricate tattoos, fine lines, and curves worked their way up and around from wrist to shoulder and halfway up a thick, muscled neck. Done in bioluminescent ink and worked in longevity magic, the de-signs swam, alive, under his skin and moved subtly to shift position. The patterns contrasted beautifully, ghostly glow against dark ebony complexion. An imposing man. Chiseled, as if cut from rock. Jax was an iron pillar. Intractable, to a degree. Stubborn, for certain. But quick to smile and not at all short on charm. A real mix of authoritative law and easy-going mirth. By-the-book meets loose cannon. I rather liked him.

J.J. gave traffic control and road cops a legend to live up to. A hero to emulate. A figurehead to glamorize the otherwise short-end-of-the-stick department. To spice up and enliven the rookie assignment dregs of police departments galaxywide. I’m no fan of cops, on the whole. I’m an orphan of Troub… comes with the territory. But I chatted with the guy, and he won me over. A top chap. A genuine slick fellow. There was a part of me that would always reserve a good tip of the hat to anyone as thoroughly hardcore as someone like Jax. Never mind the affiliation. Forget that they’re a cop, a badie, or a neutral reg. Disregard whatever side they play for. Some-one that badass… they deserve a good nod. Nova rather had the hots for the guy. “I’d boink that,” she whispered in my ear as I had just finished talking with Jax. I frowned, not that I blamed her. But it really went to show just how far I am from being her type of guy... Short. Shit hair. Handsome, sure. Or so I give myself credit. But not your man’s man. Not your alpha male. Not your Jax Jones. I shrugged. It’s on the inside that counts. My self-esteem mantra. At least I was flesh and blood. I looked over at a synth and mech, computerized character. He drank white lithium grease from a fluted glass. I overheard someone calling out his name. Hard Drive. I sipped my booze on the fringes of a small group that converged and conversed with the mechanoid man. I listened, with modest interest, to his story. Manufactured on the robo planet of Mechanika, the sole world in orbit around the volatile star of Battery. He was the poster boy for robots in the racer world. And while he looked like the tin man from the Wizard of Oz to me, apparently, he was a heartthrob in the artificial world. Cyborg ladies with sizzling circuit boards and hot bodies fawned over him. They were human enough. Some as much as half. Human enough, in any case, to make me jealous of that metal bastard. Human enough to make me hard. I scoffed on the boundary. Horny and annoyed. Hard Drive talked about his rig. Overdrive. Explained how it was the best of the best. How robot mechanics left human technologies in the dust. “Let me show you,” he said, mono-tone and frank. An aperture in his chest opened to emit a holo-graphic projection of his ride. It wasn’t half as pretty as Jax’s Justice. Not remotely as noteworthy as Nova’s Neon Dreams. A bit underwhelming in the decorative sense. No aesthetic. Not sexy at all. Clunky. Unremarkable. Plain. But

doubtless, its features were entirely geared for optimal efficiency. Primed wholesale for functionality and result. He promised victory. Went on to explain that he could in-terface with the vehicle, direct. That reaction time, instant de-cision execution, predictive maneuvering, and automatic com-pensation were all at play. Everything had been programmed. All constituents had been put into place and set up. An algorithm had been put into play. Victory computed as the final outcome. “And there you have it,” Hard Drive declared, not an ounce of inflection, not a trace of emotion, “Robotics will win the day.” I shook my head. Bloody walking calculator, the git. Some-one else had the same notion as me because they walked up and said as much. “You know, for being mostly made of metal you sure are wooden.” She was sleek and cool. Head to toe in a vibrant skin-tight green. A stick figure. No curves. Lithe and spry. She could for a boy but for her beautifully elegant and fully feminine face. Full, rose-tinted lips and long-lashed eyes. And a girlish, though confident voice. “Racing is half skill, robo-man. And I ain’t saying you don’t got it. But skill is better founded on intuition and instinct, not computation and calcu-lation. I’ll outrace you any day. And you want to know why?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Because the other half of rac-ing comes from something I know you don’t got. Come’s from something no algorithm can provide.” She thudded her flat chest with a closed fist. “It comes from the soul. It comes from a beating heart. From ion and resolve and the need to compete. It comes from the human will to win.” I didn’t have a chance to hear Hard Drive’s response. I have no idea if the conversation escalated to argument. But I doubt it. The girl seemed pious, straight-edged. The man, well... he was a robot. Wasn’t it in his programming to be do-cile and lame? In any case, I was ushered away. Someone had grabbed me by the arm. Offered me a fresh cocktail. “Naomi Wynd,” Drayke told me. “A real spitfire, that one. Racer zealot.” I did my best to ignore his clasp around my arm. “Oh yeah? She’s hot,” I opined. “Hot-tempered,” he said. “Always spewing her opinions. I’ve run into her before, various racer events. Always preach-ing her righteous views and outlook on racing. It’s a religion to her. Or something close to. She’s out to prove her

worth. Fancies herself special or chosen or some such horseshit. She bundles up all her faith, that obnoxious assurance she’s the best, wads it up and crams it, inflated ego and all, into her car.” I shrugged. “I can overlook these little quirks,” I told him. “She’s still hot.” “Well good luck catching her eye, mate,” he sized me up. Chuckled. “When she’s not offering her attention entirely to her car, Vortex, her body is on offer exclusively to women. And she’s rather selective besides, high opinion of herself and all. Nova would have a better chance getting into bed with Naomi.” I sipped my drink. “I’d pay to see that.” “Doubtless you would, little man.” “Hey, fuck you, Drayke,” I resentfully declared. “I’m not so little as all that. And get your cold dead hands off me you cloying bastard.” I pushed him away, but he pulled me in close. He opened his mouth to reveal a glimmer of gold tooth and stuck his tongue down my throat. A proper vampyre pash. My eyes went wide, and I struggled against his grip, but eased up and let go. I kissed him back. I felt my dick get hard and I moaned out, a hunger for more. I would have fucked him then and there if he had let me. Charmed? Not actually. The guy was just that good. Just that hot. Just that seductive. And I had been horny as fuck for weeks. “I want you,” I gasped between exchanges of probing tongue. “I’m sure you do,” Drayke said, amused and revolted. “But keep it to yourself and stop panting like a bitch in heat. Your breath reeks of cheese. Aren’t you vegan?” I was. I am. Maybe it was the hummus? I blushed a deep shade of rose, to match Naomi’s lips. I was bloody confused. “You kissed me first, asshole.” I finally was able to push myself free. “What gives? If you didn’t want some Zap action, then don’t come knocking at his door.” Drayke looked at me. Laughed. “You are a loathsome little thing, Zap,” he told me. “And you kiss like shit. Like some pimply preteen practicing on the back of

his hand.” “Fuck you.” “Never,” he promised and went on to explain. “But you make an excellent diversion.” “Diversion from what?” “From someone that matters,” he told me. “Someone, not you.” And he disappeared into the crowd. Lost in the throng of competitors at drink in the Chequered Flag. “Bloody bastard,” I cursed, and rubbed at my cock. I think I came in my pants, just a little. Someone put their arm around my shoulder. This time it was Nova. She looked at me fumble at my tros. “Left you high and dry, did he? He can be a real fuck face sometimes. Want me to finish you off?” My eyes must’ve lit up. “Really?” I asked. Foaming at the mouth. “No, Zap,” she said, annoyed I had taken her seriously. “Fuck no,” she emphasized. “Jesus...” I felt an utter fool. But more than that I was pissed. “You can go to hell, Nova,” I told her. “You and Drayke both.” I started to walk away but she pulled me back. “Hey, come on, Zap. Ease up, brother. I didn’t mean to wind you up. Hon-est. I’m sorry.” She handed me a funsie. “That’s the last of my Neon Tetras.” Her favourite. “Go on,” she offered. So I did. “It will make you feel better.” And it did. I felt the good-time vibe of the little fishy meandering up and down my bloodstream. Felt nice. I smiled. Bad vibes for-gotten. Nova popped her own, a Sunset Stroll, and told me about who I had served Drayke as a diversion from. Explained to me why he had used my face to conceal his own. Why he kissed me and made me swoon. It was some ex-lover that Drayke had been avoiding. “Omega Black,” Nova said, and covertly pointed. Even at a glance, he was obviously vampyre. He had

that ageless grace, that ethereal beauty. Pale and pristine, an artful work of anemic pallor, a porcelain figurine. Even his hair was white, or so lightly blonde as to seem so. Braided back on either side to meet and fall back in the middle, resting between well-pos-tured shoulders in a neat tip tied tight by a black bow. Eyes an icy blue, cold and frosty. He had been bitten at a young age, eternally projecting a youth on the verge of adulthood. Even so, he carried a mature countenance that came with the expe-rience of living life for a multitude of centuries. More woman, in ways, than Nova. He was a feminine, willowy thing. He was beautiful. Downright gorgeous. “Stop gawking,” Nova prodded me in the ribs. And I was… mouth agape and eyes wide. So much for sub-tlety. Luckily, Omega was busy following Drayke with his eyes. Despite Silverstem’s efforts, his exlover had spotted him in the crowd. Having been noticed, Drayke submitted to formal-ity, social etiquette. He approached the younger-looking man and, in seemingly cordial discussion, they conversed from a-cross the room. “He was before Lilith,” Nova explained. “Drayke had seen him, a racer boy wonder. Had watched him from the stands. Watched him take the title in a clean victory. The youngest ever to take gold in the Lunar Circuit. The Moon’s best.” My eyes watched the handsome pair of once-lovers, their grace and poise a marvel side-by-side. Their gazes locked and reflected each one’s own beauty. Twinkling and glittering in warm recollection of fond embraces and tender times shared long past, their eyes seemed to sparkle with life that the rest of them did not share. Nova kept talking. Told me how when Omega took to the podium at the winner’s stand, how when he removed and cast aside his helmet and smiled proud and ecstatic, donning gold medal around a lily-white neck, fair and fragile… Drayke watched, captivated, enthralled from the stands, and had made up his mind. Later that evening, he seduced the young man. Wooed and charmed and coddled him. Swept him off his feet. Corrupted his blood and twisted his biochemistry. Tattered his soul. Altered his being. Transformed his species. Maimed and molded him into the necrotic state that would remain his condition for the duration of his near-eternity in the physical realm. With one sensual bite and an exchange of fluids, Drayke had turned Omega vampyre.

“Lilith came to the scene and it wasn’t long after that Omega became a thing of the past. A forgotten and discarded remnant.” When I asked how she had obtained such intimate details on Drayke’s romantic past she explained that he will-ingly offered it up. Last week, during our good-time binge in Sorbitol. It was an evening I had cashed in early. Had gotten carried away. Drank myself stupid. Drank myself to sleep. The night was yet young and Drayke and Nova carried on without me. Became much closer over the span of an evening of cocktails and Ichnor-snax, respectively. Knowing Omega would likely be competing in the Galactic Crown, his young ex-lover surfaced to the forefront of Drayke’s mind. Nova was there and lent him an ear. So he waxed nostalgic. “Drayke says he’s one of the finest racers he’s ever seen. That his ride, Ghoul, is a fast piece of machine. A real speedster. Say’s Omega has a real shot to win. He told me he’d like to see that. That he’d truly love to see him win. But he also told me that he cannot allow it. And I concur. Drayke’s happy to see him, no doubt about that. But he’ll be doing his thing, working Omega into a state. Getting the boy’s mind on things other than the race. He’ll be doing what he can to distract the young man. And I’ll do what I can to make sure he comes in second. Second at the very best.” Nova seemed to finish whatever she had wanted to dis-cuss. Without another word, she walked off, lost to the crowd. I made my way to the bar and sat there with my drink. I looked around, took in that strange collection of weirdos. That odd assortment of mishmash racer elite. I chatted with the barkeep some, asked who was who when someone of particular inter-est made themselves known in the crowd. Overheard this and that from drunk conversation or uproarious argument. There were a fair few interesting competitors in atten-dance. There was a Blacksmith Roborg from Volkanica. Huge and metallic. Went by the title, Titan 9. He had been given respite from the hammer and bellows of the 9th level furnace of his homeworld. Had been offered a break from the forging of syn-tho-alloys, megaplastic, and star glass. A holiday away from the magma-rich abyss that had been his upbringing. Commissioned by Megaplastic Corp to drive their MP Cruiser, Titan 9 had proven himself thus far. Had made it to the final stage. His ride was encased in a mega plastic exo-skeleton, and so too, as had been granted to him, his own body.

While not as advanced or sleek or functional as Prince’s own cybernetic, physical rig, Titan 9, nonetheless, probably was the strongest synthetic bipedal, humanoid living being in the gal-axy. If Prince were to get wind of Titan 9’s specs and felt there was the slightest fraction of infringement over bounding his one-of-kind bodily superiority, well... the Roborg would surely end up dead. I could see it now… A disassembled scrapheap of expensive and rare salvageable parts rationed off to the scum who was hired to do him in. It’d take a dozen hooligans packing well-equipped heat. Hot pieces primed and loaded with a good dose of lethal bang-bang and explosive pop. Half of them would be killed. Titan 9 would thrash those lowlife’s good. But well paid and desperate, they’d line up for the job just the same. Hasn’t come to that yet, but I got a sense for the future. A premonition, if you will. I was feeling drunk but signaled for another. The Che-quered Flag didn’t have Crystal Head but it had plenty of worthy sip sauce to do my senses in. Plus, shit was free. So who’s giving two fucks what’s on offer? Who’s counting how many they’ve knocked back? No one’s driving. Well. everyone is driving. But no one is driving tonight. Live and let loose. I sure did. “Who is that one?” I questioned the bartender. Pointed to a small man that looked like he was dressed to compete in a figure skating routine. Sequins and all. “That’s Fei Kuai,” he informed me, poured another. “De-scendant of the first emperor of New China, or so he claims. Little fellow, but with big pockets. We’re talking proper cha-ching.” He rubbed his fingers to his thumb. “Kid’s got ambition, too. Wants to reestablish his family’s place on the high throne of planet Dynasty. Plant his own ass firm on the seat of power. Take back the N.C. dictatorship." “Huh...” My simple answer. I had nothing to add. “It all starts here for Fei,” he continued. “His campaign to elevate his popularity starts with this race. Winning the Galac-tic Crown in his unique bit of rig, the Four Seasons... it would sure raise some haughty eyebrows back in Dynasty. Open up those slitted eyes of his rivals’ real wide.”

I looked over Fei Kuai. Took him in. Four Seasons, indeed. He was dressed in theme. From sandal to hat he embodied the progression of a year’s natural rhythm. Pink and white flowers in early bloom and budding virgin green leaf from toe to mid-thigh. Spring gave way to summer around his crotch and low-er abdomen. Rich dark foliage and vibrant fruits. Blue sky and sun. Over his chest and shoulders, Autumn showed its sig-nature beauty of crisp colours. Dark green giving way to vivid red, bright orange, luminous yellow, and dull brown. Over his high collar and hat, the bare, snow-laden branches of winter capped off his attire. Dangling snowflake earrings twinkling a cluster of diamonds and polished aquamarine, the man didn’t spare extravagance. Fei was a walking, talking, gaudy calendar of seasonal seam and stitch. I downed my bevvy and felt my head begin to swim. The crowd was beginning to blur. To overwhelm. I hopped down from my seat at the bar and was prepared to cash in my chips. Sleep off the free booze and the last of that Neon Tetra swim-ming the dried-up shallows of my brain. But something stopped me. Stopped me dead in my tracks. Something put up an outstretched hand to bar the way and said as clear as can be, “Zap, the night is young.” I willed my head to stop spinning and dug deep of myself to cling to what-ever remnant of sobriety remained in my reserves. I couldn’t go to sleep now. I couldn’t possibly get any rest after seeing that. So what stopped me flat, in the space of a dime? What had me itching for more when I was already chafing from scratch-ing? If you don’t know me by now I suppose you never will. It was a girl, of course. And one that had my heart in a beat like I had just finished a round of Juice with some coke for dessert and a funsie just for funsies. She was H.O.T. hot, and that’s dumbing it down. A raging fire of ooo-la-la, and that’s dousing it in cold water. She was extremely sexy. It deserved its own word... she was sextreme. A babe to the umpteenth degree. To the humpteenth dimen-sion. I wanted her bad. Dear Lord, did I want her so bad! She was dressed in leather, sex appeal and armour all in one. Like a biker babe. But don’t mistake me. Forget your Harley D. Hell’s Angels type. None of that rough and tumble trailer trash road trip shit. No faded tatts and cigarette ash. This was all style and sleek. It was space-age and modern. Top of the line. Gucci meets astro punk. Hard-edged, break the mold, create the trend, “I’m a model

but I’m mean” type of it-oh-so-works-for-you-girl. She was decked in black and dark shades of gray. Plum and purple and muted shades of green. A bit here and there of bright icy blue. Her hair was straight and bleached pristine parchment white but shimmered hints of lavender in certain angles of the light. It glimmered and glossed like fake snow. It wasn’t very long, shaped to the outline of her jaw, shaved trim in the back and lengthening as it traveled outward as far as her chin. Stars seem to be a motif. Her signature go-to for style. She was covered in them. A veritable constellation in the shape of a beautiful woman. But she out-shone any night sky I’d ever seen. And I’ve spent some gawking hours on the observation deck aboard the Arachnid Husk. There was no comparison. This lady took the cake when it came to celestial sparkle. To star-shine shimmer. To galactic glamour. There were a great many worked into her clothes, those countless stars. Featuring her getup in tiny variations of blue and gold and pink and purple and silver sequins. They caught the light and twinkled like a mirrored disco sphere, ejecting a multi-hued bonanza of rainbow shrapnel. She wore magenta shades hoisted up on her head, oil-slick mercurial lenses contained in large star-shaped rims. A stud in each ear—you guessed it—shaped like stars. And one more, same shape, a tiny, itsy-bitsy amethyst glittering star-shine from the side of her nose. Sure, her clothes and jewelry sported the cosmic theme. They sure as shit weren’t lacking amidst the threads and fabrics of her fashion. But the true epicenter to the galaxy’s greater cluster of stars represented itself more so still in the multitudinous shades and hues inked in gorgeous intricate art upon her skin, direct. Tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos. She cast off her outer layer and threw her jacket aside. In her sleeveless top she revealed who-the-hell-knows how many stars. Fuck loads, in any case. Big ones, small ones, bright ones, dark ones, ones in outline, ones coloured in. Most were in regular inks, all and any colour you can think of, any variation, light or dark or metallic spin on the entire spectrum of human optical receptivity. Featured here and there, however, the rarer of the bunch, the highlighted suns and stars among the infinite whole... stars tattooed like Jax Jones’ own, done up in bioluminescent magic-infused liquids. They rippled and cloud-ed and waved and

changed colours like a chameleon doing its camouflage thing. Except instead of blending her in with her surroundings they were geared to stand out bold and loud and bright. A milky white star that glowed in the dark, outlined first in periwinkle and second cornflower blue stamped decorative over her left temple. A smaller, light pink opaque star settled just below its larger sister to complete the pair. No other tattoos were visible on her face. And what a face... What was she? Asian? Not really. Half Asian? Hawaiian? Something like that. Not that it matters. Doubtful she was even from Earth. Things like heritage, ancestral back history... it was all becoming more than a little muddled up. It was an obsolete curiosity. But whatever her family history, whatever her ancestral past, whatever the ethnicity that made up who and what she was... it bloody well worked. Nutbrown complexion and dark gray-green eyes. Curious, those eyes. An odd pair, those. They were all at once green and brown and blue. I couldn’t decide which was more prevalent. They shifted, altered, or were so nondescript in colour as to take on whatever was around them. While they did much to confuse, they did even more to dazzle. Highly reflective silvery metallic blue had been penciled in below her eyes. Scarab-shell emerald-green covered her long-lashed upper eyelids. Her lips were glossed in electric pink and were a perfect shape for kissing. Marginal pout. But only marginal. Just enough. A silver ring pierced her lower lip. I found myself wanting to suck on it. She was the starlight lady. The celestial queen of the night sky. And like the heavens above, she was epic. Epic hot. All those stars over all that pretty flesh... it was like the big bang, baby. And man did I want to bang that, and in a big way.

Star light, star bright, First star I see tonight.

I wish I may, I wish I might, Have this wish I wish tonight.

Looking at her now. All a smattering of stars. I know ex-actly what I was wishing... some one-on-one with her cosmic glory. Some personal time up in her space. I was bloody in love. Now I know what you’re thinking. And I’ll be damned if I had the gall to blame you. Because, hell, your right! Everyone’s thinking it... what about Nova? Yeah... I know. But that ship has sailed. And I missed the boat. I cherish my Novs, I truly do. I got respect and love for the Neon Queen. Really. I do. But I don’t want to rub the same spot raw. And I feel like I’m prodding an open wound at this stage with that one. Be-sides... all that tasty laid out on an open platter... a starving man is sure to drool. To venture a nibble, if not a big bite. So I turned right around. No way I could go to bed now. No way a simple wank would do the trick. I was tapped in and well wired. A live wire, sizzle and spark. So I had another drink. And I asked about the girl. “Name’s Ariel Star,” the barman told me. Poured me a fresh whatever. Vodka, most like. I was past tasting the shit. Well past caring. “She’s got wicked skill,” he tells me. “Righ-teous speed. In her rig, Lucky Star, she’s M.A.S.C.A.R.’s very best.” “Mascar…” I mumbled. “Remind me, pal.” “Mars Association of Stock Car Auto Racing. Ariel sits at the top, long way looking down. No one compares.” So she was Mars’ best. Mars... a stone’s throw from Earth. Maybe I’ll move there. Couldn’t be worse than Ol’ Troub. And if girls like her lived there… I scanned the crowd but Starshine was gone. Ariel had plunged deep within the throng. It didn’t matter anyhow. My eyes were clouding over and they felt heavy

as shit. The room was spinning again. I’d have a proper head-fuck come the A.M. I stumbled out the door and somehow made it to my room. Through the walls, I could hear Nova fucking next door. Sounds like it was pretty damned hot. She was probably with Jax Jones. I could hardly stay awake but even more than I was sleepy I was horny. Horny as a horned devil in heat. I went to the bathroom for some private time and a bit of release. Through those walls, I could hear Drayke and another man, well busy in bed. Looks like he and Omega were having some breakup sex. Rekindling an old flame. I shook my head. Pissed off and annoyed. I didn’t even think of anything, I just did the deed. Began and finished with a mere touch and a single stroke. I had been ready to blow. It was the last of my strength. I didn’t even clean up. Didn’t even put my cock away. I ambled to the bed and collapsed in a heap. I fell asleep, instantaneously. And I dreamed of countless beautiful stars...

As forecasted, my head was in a dire state come the morn-ing. Turns out it wasn’t even morning. I slept and sweat and sprawled in a drunken wallow right through half the after-noon. I was bloody starving. I almost asked out loud for Cindy to fix me some grub. Whip me up something greasy and warm to soak up all the toxic slosh going flub-flub in my tummy. Then I ed... this wasn’t the Arachnid. No gossip gal to obligingly make me some hash-brown and beans on toast. In the Hourglass Hotel, I’d have to fend for myself. So I opened a packet of peanuts from the minibar and a can of lemon soda. I felt like a slug too long in the sun. Shriveled and dying, I fell back asleep. I woke from a dream wandering some arid wasteland and chasing mirage after mirage of nonexistent water. Through the crack in the curtains, I saw that the sun was well into setting. I had slept through the whole fucking day. I got up out of bed. My head like an active fault line. I bee-lined to the bathroom and drank a fuck-load of water. Took an epic shit. After a shower I felt half alive again. It was already push-ing cocktail o’clock. I

looked in the mirror and saw a shadow of a Zap. A shade of my proper self. The bad sequel to the good original film. Cocktail o’clock... round two, is it? I wasn’t sure if I had it in me. But I thought about what awaited me down at the Chequered Flag. What awaited me, other than booze and bad headaches. My star-spangled beauty. That perfect piece of lady inked up all in cosmic opulence. Ariel Star. M.A.S.C.A.R.’S leading lady. I slammed a few more liters of agua, straight from the tap. Splashed and slapped my face. I fucking willed my hangover away. Put it in my pocket. It’d be sure to come out later. I got myself in reasonable nick. I munched down another packet of salted nuts. And I was sorted, mate. I made my way down. Another night out... But it didn’t turn out that way. It was nothing like the night before. The Chequered Flag was dead. Maybe a quarter of the crowd from last night’s crew. Of all the notable racers I only saw Naomi Wynd. And she was sipping a ginger ale. The scene was tepid. A real fucking bore. Of Nova and Drayke, there wasn’t a sign. No Jax Jones and his big light-show biceps. No Hard Drive with his computer logic. No Titan 9 and his literal hard case presence. No Omega Black and his effeminate eternal youth. No Fei Kuai and his seasonal display of bloom and decay. And absent, most notably of all, no Ariel Star with her big bang, banging body. No celes-tial star-shine to brighten the dull and oh-so-ho-hum hum-drum blah. And my hangover was killing me. Pounding away in my skull like a battering ram upon the castle gates of my mind. “What’ll it be?” The barman asked. “A lobotomy,” I suggested, and rubbed at my temples. His hand reached for a bottle. Some Amaretto and pineapple juice. “Wait, is that actually the name of a drink?” Turns out it was. Fuck me. “I’ll stick with the hair of the dog that bit me,” I changed the order. And he ed me a tum-bler filled to the brim. Vodka and plenty of ice.

The bevvy didn’t help. I still felt like shit. I took one last look around. The scene was dead. A bloated corpse. Nothing lively about it. I was cashing in. Calling it a night. I sighed a sad sigh and left the Chequered Flag in the wake of my depressed footsteps. Ariel Star... will I ever see you again?

When I got back to my room it was nearly time for bed. Fuck’s sake... feels like I only just woke. At least tonight there were no sounds of screwing through the walls. I was feeling a heavy weight of loneliness. Had a real longing to be in some-one’s arms. To put myself between someone’s legs. I really don’t think I could have dealt with right then a background soundscape of people having a good romp. The last thing I wanted to hear was the rhythmic beat of a headboard on the wall. Moans and shrieks and oaths... the very last thing I could have stomached to hear... was the sound of two people fucking. I held my breath. I half expected it. Sod’s law. What I heard instead... a knock at my door. “Zap, you there?” Nova. “Come on in.” And she did. Sports bra and panties, knee-high socks. I threw some tros at her, a clean bathrobe. “Unless you’ve come to seduce me, put something on.” “But it’s hot,” she complained. “Yeah, well so are you,” I told her. “And I’m in no mood to be jerked around.” I was done with all the teasing. “Fine...” she conceded, threw on the extra layers. “I didn’t know you looked at me like that.” I rolled my eyes. Like what? I thought. Like you’re a woman, half-naked, and I’m a man, half-mad by how much you show but how little you offer? Never mind it took me a week by your side to determine you’re not a man. Point is, fuck yes I look at you like that. I didn’t say anything. I was too tired to be

bothered. “Tomorrow’s the big race,” she said. “The eve of the Galac-tic Crown. It’s finally here.” “Yeah...” I was hungover. Talking took effort. I had little to say. Nothing to offer. “I can’t sleep,” Nova confessed. And I ed what she told me the night before her last big race. The night she wiped the floor with the Rat King. The night she smeared old Francis McCurdy into a tally of gore across the pavement. The night before the All Earth Tourna-ment. Nova had said that she couldn’t sleep. Never could. Not ever. Not on the night before. She would toss. She would turn. And she would dream of Neon Dreams. Somewhere inside me, I found some encouraging words. It took some digging around but once I located them they spilled on out. “Don’t worry about sleep,” I told her. “And don’t bother dreaming,” I added. “You’ve got what you need, I take it? You’ve got the right dreams to feed Morpheus?” “I do,” she stared at the floor. “More angel wings and tofu?” “Something like that,” she said. Didn’t offer further details. “Good,” I nodded. “Just what happened the last time. how things went when you couldn’t sleep. Last time, when you needed to come up big. You did. You won the race. You won that fucker good. And this time you won’t have that crazy vamp bastard and his blood-guzzling horror-show nipping at your tits.” She nodded slowly. Looked a little less nervous. Pep-talk was working. “But I’ve got the galaxy’s best to deal with this go around.” “So you do,” I agreed. “But you’ll outrace them all, Nova. You’ll fuck ‘em as hard as you fucked Earth’s fourth quadrant. And you want to know why?” She looked up from the floor to meet my eyes. She found a fire there. I was

surprised myself to feel it from within. A resolve to win. “Because you have to, Nova,” I told her straight. “Prince killed your brother. Got rid of August as soon as his use came to an end. Rewarded his fine works with slaughter. He stole and tormented Drayke’s fiancé. Used and abused her. Made light of her pain in spiteful cruelty. And doing that to my friends... he right pissed me off. So this is our shot. Our chance to win a ticket to get even with that royal piece of shit. You’ve got to win, Nova. You just bloody have to.” And the fire was now in Nova’s eyes too. “I think I’m good to sleep, after all,” she told me. I took that as a good sign.

THE GALACTIC CROWN

And they all assembled at the Hourglass. All of those weir-dos and wackos and crazy bastards and badasses. All of those petrol-head, hot rod, greed-for-speed, velocity junky motor maniacs. All of the galaxy’s finest. The racer elite. They all lined up in a row and revved. Loud and proud. Rearing and ready to go. Me and the Drayke, we were sitting pretty. Finish-line front row seats. Carbon emissions all up in our nostrils. Ear-bleeding motor screams. Engine oil and synthetic lube acrid in the air, wind working the chequered flags in a flap-flap, wiggle, wiggle. We were up close and personal. Right in with the ac-tion. Binos on the sidebar, no need. We were there. Right fuck-ing there. We were with them all, that righteous racer rabble. I wasted no time. I scanned the front lines. And while I had never seen it, I had a good inkling, look for the stars... And there she was. Lucky Star. Motor steed to the cosmic queen, M.A.S.C.A.R.’s top, Ariel bodacious Star. Shades of purple, dark grays and deep blues, peppered with an infinite sprink-ling of five-sided stars; bubblegum pink, hot magenta, con-grats-it’s-a-girl, zinfandel rose, and maiden’s blush. Over the hood, large and loud, a real steal-the-show stamp, the matri-arch of stars. Opalescent, pearl-shimmer, milk-white, pale, o-paque... it was as good as a written name. It told who she was. Behold, it said, Lucky Star. I noted other rides belonging to their drivers who I had met or glimpsed at the Chequered Flag. Other rigs I could put a name to, associate a driver and face. Omega Black was near-est, sitting in his Ghoul. A streamlined, sexy bit of scrap. Gloss and polish, black on black. Her window was down and re-vealed the dreamy gaze of her driver. He stared up into the stands. Right beside me. His focus was all for Drayke. The boy was in love. I picked out Jax Jones’ Justice. Easy to do. It was the only car of the lot with police lights and cop motif. Flash and wicked cool, S.P.D. decal branded over that gorgeous Ferrari 488 Pista frame. The bane of many speedster gangers of Spelt. But Jax was there to race, not to play popo. There would be no speed-ing tickets doled out today. Just speed.

Hard Drive was there too. Plugged in. Direct interface. One with his vehicle. The clunky, oversized Overdrive. He had promised victory. Had computed the odds. We’ll see today what a robot’s promise is worth. Far off at the opposite end. Naomi Wynd. She was leaning out of the open window of Vortex, dark green and black, a handsome ride. Even from this distance, I could see that she was shouting. Yelling at the diver in the car beside her. It was Fei Kuai, glaring back at his aggressor from inside Four Seasons. The vehicle was just like his outfit, a spring to winter spread. Tail to nose. All four seasons. It was all at once gaudy and tacky, but also intricate and beautiful. What season would it be for Fei? Spring, with its new life and fresh begin-ning, abundance and pleasures? Or winter, with its bleak and barren chill, its death and dormancy, its hardships and long, dark hours? Or somewhere in between? I couldn’t care less, truth be told. The future of Dynasty’s dynasty was of similar interest to me as the consistency of my next shit. Either way, it will get wiped. Ahhh... and there’s Titan 9 beside his M.P. Cruiser. His megaplastic exoskeleton and armoured car, blood-red and orange hue. He’d blend in well with the rivers and pools of bubbling magma of his homeworld in Volkanica. But would his skill be enough to blend in with the best of the best in the Galactic Crown? We shall see. And of course, let’s not forget, the main act of our little show. All bling and dazzle. Sparkle and shine. Sass and class and electric flash. There she was, sitting center stage, the Neon Queen and her Neon Dreams. She leaned against her rig, banana leather like the days of old. Bomber shades reflecting all of those competitors, all of those cars. She took them all in with a yawn and a shrug. She was putting on the cool. That classic Nova tude. That toocool-for-school confidence that was edging on boredom. It may have been a front. May have been put on. For all I know she was squirming on the inside. Clenching in a reserve of nervous diarrhea. Scared to shit for the challenge ahead. Whimpering beneath that mask of fearless nonchalance. But I doubt it. She was looking proper laid back. Cocky and calm. Here from the crowd, I was convinced. Her stance had said it all. “I got this,” it let us know. “I got this, no fucking sweat.”

I’d seen her race before. Seen it on more than one occasion. The girl had skills. Her ride was hot. Her wheels had serious spin. And fuckin’ hell, the things that come out of that car! She had a good shot… I’m not saying she doesn’t. But that don’t mean I ain’t sweating. I’ll save that crazy, cocksure confidence for Nova. I was pissing in my goddamned tros. A jingle filled the air to signal the drivers to get ready. A megaphone announced a five-minute warning. I was already biting my nails down to the quick. Drayke was calm beside me, but his stony silence told me he was on edge. “Drivers.” The megaphone. “Start your engines.” And this time I was ready for it. VROOOOOM. I learned the hard way back at the Silver Halo. Had to listen to a ring in my ears for three bloody days. I smiled at the odd unlucky ones. The poor fools who cringed and winced, hands up to their ears like the devil had crawled inside. Not me. I grinned. Not this time, mate. The gauze was well jammed in my ear holes. It didn’t take away from the clarity of the megaphone. These events were loud as shit. “On your mark...” I nudged Drayke. “Here we fucking go!” “Get set...” Gulp. ... “GO!!!” And they did. All fifty or sixty of them. Boy, did they fuck-ing go! The noise was heinous. An assault. A bloody front. Gauze or no, that shit was noisy as fuck. Honestly, it brought me to tears. All those pimped out engines roaring at once. It was god-awful. And it was glorious. They shot in a collective whoosh down the track. Zero to who-the-hell-knows in

the space of a New York milliminute. People’s hairstyles got thwarted in that devious wind. My hair is shit. I wasn’t fussed. The first thing I took in after the initial bullet shot rocket rush... the very first thing that I saw once the dust and debris had settled... was a gaudy, over-the-top intricate paint job of spring, summer, winter, fall. And man did it fall. The Four Seasons took to the air. It corkscrewed and spun, almost graceful to behold. And then it came down in a crash, winter first, and exploded. And thus ed Fei Kuai. Him and his rig in a tangle of metal, a pillar of flame. Zero chance of survival. I didn’t even see how it had happened. So much for the would-be emperor of New China on Dynasty. It had happened so quickly. Mere seconds into the match. I confess I struggled to stifle my laughter. Drayke gave me a wack over the head for it. I couldn’t blame him. But I could blame the laughter… blame it on my nerves. And the rest of them zoomed onward. A right raucous flock of raging bats out of hell. Vroom times vroom squared. Fuck-who-knows what MPH down the track. Faster than any man had a right to move on land. But rights be damned. They moved the ultra motion. They moved something electric. They moved like motor gods on heat all lubed up in synth oils and petrol. It was something else to see. It was the first lap of fifty. Down the Hourglass track. It got its name from its figure-eight shape. Nicknamed the Infin-ity Loop. A wide lane of asphalt that ate its own tail. The Ouroboros of racer venues. It overlapped in the middle, the first half of the track raising in a bridge over the second. Competitors that got ahead could take stock of those who trailed well behind, looking over the side of the bridge in the middle. Vice versa, those that lagged behind could curse themselves as they saw their betters well in the lead. It made for an interesting visual mishmash from the stands. But more impor-tantly, allowed for an extra-long track without ever expanding too far from view. Apart from Fei Kaui’s early exit from the race, his sudden departure from the realm of the living, the first few laps had gone on without a hitch. Competitors clumped together as one and slowly spread apart as the seconds progressed into min-utes and a semblance of marginal order was established. Nova propelled Neon Dreams to a respectable but unremarkable ini-tial placement somewhere

slightly beyond the greater half of the competition. Some harmless-looking minivan must have been loaded with top gear specs under the hood. Must have been conceal-ing some serious motor madness beneath its guise of mun-dane, everyday, nondescript lameness. A true blue sleeper. A master of disguise. It looked like it was better suited to the gridlock traffic of Troubadour. One of the countless among the throng doing the nine-tofive, stop-go dance of urban con-formity and routine. It looked perfect for dropping the kids off at school. For loading up its spacious interior with groceries, the family dog, the dry cleaning. But in this case, looks were deceiving. That minivan, dubbed Soccer Mom, had taken the early lead. But not for long. Jax Jones was working his Ferrari 488 Pista into a froth. Crui the ranks in his wicked-cool ride, Justice. He couldn’t seem to take that extra edge away from Soccer Mom. She must have been late getting her kids to prac-tice because she was moving like a road-rage torrent down the track. But Jax had a little trick up his SPD sleeve. Oldest trick in the book. It wouldn’t have worked on most of these hard-edge bastards circling the track. They were used to cops flag-ging them down. And used to ignoring them, outrunning them. But Soccer Mom was cut from a suburban cloth. So when Jus-tice flashed her reds and blues and sounded out her siren song the minivan submitted to the call. Lifelong instincts kicked in without a second thought for better judgement. She pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine. When Soccer Mom realized she had been duped by a ruse it was way too late. Half the competition watched her in their rearview mirrors. Doubtless, each one of them laughing. The race progressed and Neon Dreams continued to lag, stuck in the middle of the pack. Neither gaining nor losing ground. Nova’s hot wheels had gone tepid. Her position had gone stagnant. I could sense the time was near. Time for Nova to introduce to her opponents her dear friend, Morpheus. Time to activate the dream machine. Let spill the neon spec-tres. It had to be now. Time to stir the pot. I could feel it. I wasn’t wrong. The Dream lit up in a bright flash, true to her namesake. Strands of neon flare peeled away from the structure of the car to detach and coalesce into independent forms of brilliant light. Four shapes. Small but alive and active with luminescent mischief. Three cats and a dog. Yellow, pink, green, and blue. I

knew those shapes... the Arachnid’s resident fuzzies. Malice, Malik, Malachi, and Rin Tin Tin. They stood there beaming, blinding, shining. And then they ran a-fucking-mok. They cleared away those closest to Nova. Racers just ahead, and others just behind. Running to and fro, back and forth, they jumped at to intercept and collide with nearby vehicles. Ramming them with their astro-dimensional bodies of static electric sheen, exploding in localized light shows of efferves-cent gaseous fizz. Opponents were left dazed and blinded, damaged or confused. Most pulled off to the side or slowed to a crawl. It had afforded Nova a clear stretch before and around her. So she hit the pedal hard. Ate up some track and narrowed the gap. She had much more to make up. A shitload more to do. But it had been a healthy start. Neon Dreams rocketed forth, vomiting hues and rays in her furious wake. At her side, a trio of cats and a lone robo dog. Apparitions of light. Morpheus’ children. Spawned from the nocturnal dream fluids of Nova’s random synaptic firing, collected and commingled, blended with and introduced to the mechanical soul of Neon Dreams, fast in action. They were an odd group of what-the-fuck moving fast up the track. Presently, they were coming up on the heels of Titan 9, his megaplastic bulk durable and mighty, encased within a rig of yet more of the same impervious stuff, a veritable fortress on wheels, the M.P. Cruiser. Rin Tin Tin made a heroic dash to thwart the blacksmith roborg from Volkanica. His canine whimper was cut short on impact as he exploded in a splatter of electric blue across the windscreen of translucent M.P. Titan 9 grinned and plowed onward, his bulk and armour keeping Nova in check behind him. Malik and Malachi ran off beyond the side of the track, two jet streams of pink and green. They sped off to intercept oppo-nents in the lead, assessing the M.P. Cruiser too hard a nut for them to crack. They came upon Ariel Star, glittering stardust in wild propulsion, her Lucky Star shooting forward like a comet across the cosmos. Shocking pink and toxic green, the feline apparitions pounced upon their prey, two neon tallies writ across the sky. Except they were the prey, as it would turn out. Gold-plated gun, all sparkle and bling, wielded nonchalant in a casual hand... Ariel poised and aimed from across the enger seat and out of an open

window. Bang, bang. Successive shots. Perfect. Precise. And those bullets must have been doused in magic or blessed by shamanic priests... because they twinkled in the air and crackled like popcorn cast upon a fire. They siz-zled across the sky and impacted with the astro cats in a weird, almost unreal, implosion. Shapes of light going down a drain into nothing. Blotted, in an instant, from reality itself. Malice remained with Nova. Hissing and spitting. Tail puffed up like a feather duster. A yellow terror. Pissed to shit. The remaining ghost cat held in check, at the moment, by Titan 9 and his hard-case enormity. His impenetrable bulk. Hard-case, for sure. Impenetrable, my ass. Malice zipped ahead. A mad, desperate dash. His sudden speed leaving a motion trail of bright yellow light like a stream of piss let loose downwind. Stopping and returning, boomer-anging backward as if a thrown banana, he sped in a collision course with the furious onrush of Titan 9 and his daunting M.P. Cruiser. Malice’s suicide was not an empty gesture of “bon voyage.” It was no mere show of “sortie dramatique.” No dramatic exit for the simple sake of flare. It was tactical and well thought out. Impressive, I had thought. More so still, considering we’re talking about a cat made from light. A split second before Malice’s hard impact would have ended in a futile splat, an amber splash of golden gore across the megaplastic hood of the M.P. Cruiser, the feline tensed into a tight ball. He twisted just so. This deft maneuver sent the cat’s sacrificed body to go up into the wheel and under the rim of the fastmoving vehicle. It was enough to send the heavy bulk of Titan 9 airborne, his armoured ride sky high. And while the car landed undamaged, the driver unharmed, protected by the supreme durability of their hard-case bodies, the M.P. Cruiser landed flat on its topside, swiveling like a carnival ride. A child’s spinning top. A turd down the toilet. Like a tortoise on its back. Immobile and indisposed. Well, that was one less opponent to worry about. And No-va sped on down the track. Neon Dreams was gaining more ground. Raising her position on the track. Raising some eyebrows in the crowd. “Which one’s that?” They’d ask and point. “Who’s driving that lit-up rig? What in the fuck were those crazy cats on the

track?” I smiled, feeling proud. That’s my babe, rockin’ the road. Spin-ning the wheel in her Neon Dreams. That’s the Neon Queen, Lady Bright, in the flesh. That’s my friend. And she’s the best. That’s Nova fucking Bright. She whizzed and zoomed and sped all alight, ablaze and radiant with high voltage motion. An electric canary flying helter-skelter down the strip, dribbling lime coloured light, in the limelight, pink streaks and blue blobs of radioactive flare. The Nova Show broadcasted loud and bright with zigzags of highlighted motion. The Dream, a nightmare to all rival racers, threaded through the last of that lackluster bunch. Those mid-dle-of-the-pack, good, but not-good-enough competition. Epic velocity and some mean MPH sent her onward and ahead. Sent her to the upper echelon. The Galaxy’s top of the top. Progress met an ime, however, when Nova met Nao-mi. Neon Dreams and Vortex danced and swerved and swung their partner dosey doe. They checked each other into a dead-lock of equal speed and skill. Trading the lead in micro advan-tages. Inches here, centimeters there. The deuce was long. The outcome indecisive. Side by side the two cars sped. It was high-speed synchro-nicity. Bright yellow and neon hues beside dark, vivid green and swirls of billowing gray. It could have ed for a collab-orative act. Naomi Wynd rolled down her window, extended one willowy arm, and gave Nova Bright a flash of the birdie. The middle finger, a “hello and fuck you.” The crowd saw it on the big screen and laughed as one. And then they gasped... as Nova edged her Neon hard against the Vortex and nearly took off Naomi’s arm, rude gesture and all, along with a coating of paint. Naomi Wynd made good her name. She screamed and cursed. Shouted all manner of insults, all kinds of threats. Piss and wind... funny that, as it all would be lost to the wind. Mov-ing at those high speeds, motors all manic with high decibel laughter, her insults would fall short on deaf ears. Just when Vortex swerved inward to make good on those threats some-thing came from behind. Something fast, and something truly fucked up. It was a shadow man. That’s the best description I’ve got. It was a shadow. And it was shaped like a man. Then I saw where it had come from. Saw who and what it was that was

gaining menacingly on No-va and Naomi. It was Omega Black in his sleek and scary Ghoul. And all at once, I understood how the car had got its name. The ghoul half floated, half crawled, swimming and sailing through the air like a deranged ghost in an epileptic fit. It vibrated and shook and bent its neck and back and limbs at angles that would have killed a living man. Sent any mortal into a screaming, weeping fit as their broken body shattered and crunched. Not so the ghoul. It didn’t seem to mind its self-inflicted contortions. Its unnatural movements, chaotic, de-monic, desperate. It wailed and moaned a tortured, piteous howl. It chilled my blood and sent my hairs to stand on end. It was unpleasant, putting it lightly. Frightening as fuck, putting it frankly. The graveyard apparition caught up with and crawled on-to the back of Vortex. It interrupted Naomi and Nova’s tiff. Made it seem a petty, trivial thing. Forgotten in an instant. The ghoul clawed its way on top of the moving car. Naomi screamed from within. Let loose a barrage of obscenities. She worked the wheel something crazy. Tried to shake that creepy bastard loose. Phantom skeletal fingers pierced holes into the metal roof of Vortex. The ghoul anchored itself to find ade-quate purchase against the wild flailing swerves and turns that was Naomi’s best attempt to buck that ghastly parasitic horror. To no avail. The wretch held fast and firm. Too late, Naomi began to roll up her window. She watched in her side-view mirror as the demonic terror beat her to the punch. The ghoul abandoned its shape to dissipate into a polluted black fog and worked itself inward through the re-maining crack before the closed window could seal it off. With that obscene wraith riding shotgun and Naomi with nowhere to go, her fate was sealed. Her end was at hand. And what a godawful end it turned out to be. The ghoul reassumed a human semblance and straddled Naomi like a fuck-hungry lover. It leaned in for a kiss. And no little peck. Its skull face hinged open, a wide gaping mouth. It bent forward as Naomi pushed at it uselessly, her hands ing straight through its cloud-form body. An inch from her mouth its own paused not to kiss or to bite but to breathe inward. Breathe in-ward, like a reverse vortex. A concave, vacuum gale. The ghoul inhaled like a Hoover powered by a split atom. It sucked from Naomi her very soul. Her life force drunk up, the apparition returned, bloated, to

its vampyre master, Omega Black. Omega Black... a man to be feared, never mind his adoles-cent and feminine aspect. He cruised on by and turned to grin upon Vortex, now piloted by a soulless corpse. It slowed and swerved and began to spin. It left the track and came to an unceremonious halt, its front end crunched against a concrete partition. Omega hit his stride. His rig refueling with raw spiritual essence. Ghoul fed off the soul that had been brought back to her. Drank in Naomi Wynd. Savoured her, like a fine wine. Its engine guzzled down that hotblooded life force and a newfound velocity sent it forward like a black dart shot from an open portal from hell. Nova watched Omega zoom out of reach. Watched him cruise on way ahead. She watched Ghoul’s back-end disappear down the track. Off into the horizon. And she ate her compet-itor’s dust. A whole fucking mouthful. Thankful, in the least, that she retained her soul. Even from my seat in the stands, I could see that Nova had been rattled. And who the fuck could blame her? She saw the life and soul of a competitor enjoyed for dinner by some ghost addicted to death and despair. It had all happened right be-side her. Naomi and Nova had been arguing side by side. It was luck of the draw... fifty-fifty. It could have been her. It could have just as easily been her... And I could almost hear her thoughts. Nova getting over her fear. Setting it aside and taking up instead some bold, bad-ass, brazen sass. Some “fuck you” tude and go-get-em, amped-up, I-don’t-think-so stance on the matter. “Not on my watch,” she seemed to say. And more to the point... down to the nitty-gritty... she enunciated rather clearly... “fuck you, assholes. Here I fucking come.” And she did. She came. She came real hard. Real loud. Like Meg Ryan showing Billy Crystal in public. Only this wasn’t faked. This shit was the real deal. Morpheus woke from another dream to say hello. Neon Dreams cracked open another capsule and vomited forth a radiant, light-show spectacle. Another crazy, messed-up dream. Nova popped the hood. Opened up the boot. Out of front and rear Neon Dreams

first upchucked and then shat a pair of luminescent figures. Two phosphorescent demons. One small, the other large. “I know that guy,” I said and nudged Drayke. I was refer-ring to the big one. Cyclops eye, gorilla muscles, huge and mean and giant sword worn over his back. “It’s Grim.” “And Oat, too,” Drayke gestured to the little one. “Or something that loosely resembles him.” Oat’s neon apparition was slight and slender, short and pixie-like. But it moved fast as fucking lightning and had a small arsenal of ninja and samurai paraphernalia at the ready. Shuriken and kunai, metal star and knife, kusarigama, weight-ed chain and sickle, katana, wakizashi, kodachi, swords of all sizes, large, medium, and small. Both he and his collection of deadly weapons comprised entirely of light. Variations of yel-low. Shades and hues of pink. Grim was not near as fast as his little partner, nor did he carry near as many weapons. But he was big as shit. Megalithic, man. Strong as a bloody ox. And his lone sword outweighed all of Oat’s weapons piled together, twice—probably three times—over. Slow, fast, it didn’t really matter... that thing packed a bloody punch. Grim was a mass of blinding blue. A tower of lit-up azure and cobalt. His oversized sword a bright shimmering green like Skywalker’s second lightsabre. And his solo angry eye a vivid, toxic fuchsia. Between the small and the large of that pair of neon assas-sins, I honestly couldn’t say who I’d rather not have to face. If it were me, I’d probably avoid both altogether. Death by ninja speed and stealth or death by the crippling weight of a mono-lithic slab... I think I’ll take a rain check. Thanks. Omega Black was well gone at this stage. Miles down the track. Nowhere in sight. Far, far ahead. Ghoul rocked the road going soul-speed swift, drunk on the recent consumption of Naomi Wynd. That black putrid beast had taken the lead. Even Oat with his furious speed wouldn’t be catching up in a hurry. Omega was gone. Long gone. But Nova smiled and signaled, made an unspoken command to her neon cyclops thrall. Grim stayed behind and turned backward down the track while his master cruised on ahead in a super-speed multihued motion blur. Oat poised, arms

crossed, feet planted wide. He balanced on the roof of Neon Dreams and rode her like a surfer who had caught the most righteous of white-capped waves. Further back Grim did his thing. Executed the plan. He came upon the middle of the track and climbed upward onto the raised bridge to look over the asphalt lane that led under where he stood. In the distance, the onrush of Omega in Ghoul, Jax in Justice, Ariel in Lucky Star, and somewhat further back from the leading trio, Hard Drive in Overdrive and Nova in Neon Dreams. Apart from the last, any target was fair game. But why wait around? Why weigh out the options? Grim was a simple man. He went with first-come, first-serve. He went for the leader.

Omega rode out the effects of that sinister soul-speed. MPH off the grid. His rig racing off the bloody rails. Ghoul came hard and came fast. She approached the track’s over-hang and her driver didn’t bother to look upward. Omega didn’t see it coming at all. Didn’t notice that hulking figure crouching from above, ready for the pounce, mammoth blade held skyward in a two-handed grip. And the giant neon bastard timed it perfect. The oncom-ing race car, the jump, the downward swing. Ghoul was cloven in two. Instantaneously severed lengthwise, front to back. The sound of heavy impact on the car, on the road... of metal tear-ing inward and rubber screeching from ultra-fast to sudden halt... it was a cacophonous eruption of epic road-rage chaos. Omega himself had avoided with Grim’s biblical blade, his super-sized swing. But his beautiful, flawless, eter-nally youthful body was thrown from the cloven gap of Ghoul and flew one hundred metres down-track in a sickly splat. When I asked Drayke about it he told me even a vampyre wouldn’t have survived the violence of that impact. If he felt remorse he did not show it. Well then... so much for Omega Black. R.I.P.—or don’t—you soul-sucking fuck. Meanwhile, Nova was driving hard. Hard on the heels of Hard Drive. When she was really closing in, coming in hard and com-ing in fast upon Hard Drive’s computerized ass... when the Dream was right up in Overdrive’s microchip, circuit-board space... when Billy Ocean’s plea to “touch my bumper, baby” was looking like the next likely outcome... Nova thumped the roof above

her head and without a word or delay Oat sprang into action. The light-comprised incubus ninja jumped off of Neon and into the air. He unleashed a series of four-sided throwing stars, a migrating flock of well-flung shuriken. They landed with loud conviction. They pierced and punctured Overdrive with serious but superficial damage. All of this before Oat had even hit the ground. And when he did hit the ground, he hit the ground running. And fuck, mate, could he ever run. He was on Overdrive. On her in a flash. On that clunky computerized set of wheels. Katana raised up high, coming down for the final, fatal blow. Chain and sickle swung in deft and lethal martial artistry. A combo attack of over-the-top fi-nality. A direct and deadly hit. Except not. Oat’s offensive missed its mark. His ninja attack, a clean air-ball. The downward swing of his blade, the aerial arc of his sickle... they swung in futility. There was no longer a target to hit. In the space of a mere butterfly flap or blink of a bloody eye, Oat’s sure target was off and away. Light-years down the track. Overdrive took off in a zero-tosixty surge. Except she was already going two hundred. So what does that make it? Two hundred to two-sixty...? Where she dug up that extra speed, who the fuck knows. But one way or another she sure as shit was moving now. Down the track and down some more. Overdrive promptly took the lead. “That’s her signature move,” Drayke told me all about it. “Where Overdrive gets her name. Why Hard Drive computed certain victory. Why that electronic mother fucker had been so goddamned confident.” He stopped to spit. “And now I can see why.” Overdrive... that’s some bloody move. No one’s likely to catch up with that. But it didn’t stop Oat from trying. He ran as one may expect from an otherworldly ninja made of light. He ran like a ninja, fast as light. Or near enough. In any event, he ran really fucking fast. Who’s to say, he may even have caught up... caught up to that absurdly speedy computerized rig. Caught up to the leading man, Hard Drive. Caught up, that is, if he hadn’t first run into Ariel Star and Jax Jones. They saw him coming and wasted no time snuffing out his

advance. Jax turned the wheel at the precise time of Oat’s ing. He clipped his hip in a swift and severe offering of Justice. The neon ninja faltered, stumbled, tripped, and skidding across the track at fast-as-fuck tempo. Trust a shinobi to regain his feet like he did, find his footing to hardly skip a beat. He ran on-ward. A man on a mission. No matter. Made no difference. Ariel Star let go of the wheel. She leaned out from her rig and in each hand wielded a glittering gun of gold. She found her mark and wasted not an instant. She bang-banged out the window of Lucky Star. Black-magic doused bullets fired. They sailed through the air. Precise and sure. Priestly projectile blessings, shamanic curses, or whatever. Witchdoctor voodoo slugs buried deep in what remained of the ninja made from light. He cascaded into a glittering rain of one million droplets of neon phosphorescence. Oat was gone... but Grim remained. The big lug rubbed his two brain cells together. Did something clever. He knew there was no way he was going to catch up with Hard Drive. No way in hell he was going to gain ground on that arrow-fast, sling-shot Overdrive. So he made himself useful. He lay down and took a nap. Now don’t mistake me. I ain’t saying he was throwing in the towel. Grim did no such thing. He wasn’t at all giving up. It was all a part of his cunning plan. He lay in wait, sprawled out in the recumbent glory of his fantastic bulk. He got nice and comfortable. And bided his time. Grim didn’t have to wait very long. Coming at him down the track, 300 MPH or more… Over-drive, the leader. But not for fucking long. Linked up, complete interface, rig and roboman as one, they came onward, a hap-hazard motor avalanche. Hard Drive saw it too late… the giant cyclops taking a snooze across the track. He was coming in too hot. Full stomp on the brakes, a useless gesture. All he could do was watch as the impending collision, his impending doom, unfolded before him, ultra-mega-fast. BOOM!! Grim exploded in a violent upheaval of technicolour. A giant chromatic splash.

Overdrive, and Hard Drive within, exploded as well. Flame and ash and frying circuits. Electronic wires wriggled like tortured snakes. Plastic melting and metal torn asunder. It’s up for debate if A.I. beings are truly alive. It is no long-er a matter of discussion, however… neither in question nor in doubt… no beings, living or conscious to any degree, re-mained in that billowing black chimney of smoke and fire. Hard Drive’s computations, after all, had been wrong. And Nova drove on. Whittling away the competition. Things had played out rather well. So far… All the while these strange absurdities had occurred… these odd events had been played out… minivans and soccer moms being pulled over in a duped mockery of police patrol… a trio of neon feline apparitions and one robo dog, running amok, squashed, shot up by gold-plated guns with magic-doused bullets blessed by shamanic or demonic priests… an overturned titan swivelling on its armoured back… neck and neck, high-speed racing, cursing, an exchange of oaths… a devouring of life-force and spirit, an inward slurp of soul-smoothie, a ghoul fuelling its vampyric master… a cyclops brute and hyperactive ninja, a pair of bright light assassins… a cloven car, the undead, dead… a computerized man in flames beyond his warranty… and now this moment. All the while this fucked up multitude of weird and wild on-goings had surmounted in a growing collection of bizarre and outlandish episodes, the racer opponents were doing their thing. Eating up some track. Gobbling down some miles of loop. Over and over and over again. The race was coming to a close. It was nearing its end. The tracks had come and they had mostly gone. The fat lady was nowhere in sight, but doubtless, she was just about ready to sing. And there we were… with only three laps remaining. The end in sight. Justice and Lucky Star flashed down the track. They traded the lead, going ultravroom, neck and neck. Jax Jones flipped on the red and blue blink. Let loose the police pretties. Turned on the siren and punched the console, activated the TV theme to COPS. Bad Boys blaring, he was doing his thing. Adding to the chaos. Feeling the victorious vibes. Not long to go. Fuck that, Ariel Star may as well have shouted. She com-municated in Morse Code, or seemed to, her gold guns going bang-bang at intermittent spaces. She

shot at Jax a little but mostly shot into the air. She was mad with mayhem. High on the mastery of momentum. She could taste impending tri-umph. Savored the flavour of galactic level achievement, high-speed supremacy. She could sense the end of the line. And she would be damned if she weren’t to cross it first. The hard-edge cop in his Ferrari 488 Pista, the astro-bitch in her star-studded glitter-mobile… they duked it out in a frantic dance. Exchanged the lead in a tug-of-war, back-and-forth battle. Their fancy cars moved all manner of MPH in a tangle and swerve and screech of metal on metal, rubber on pavement. Bad Boy’s booming from the speaks, full volume. Gold guns going off. Magic bullets peppered the clouds. It was enough for the competition to sneak in unnoticed. Enough for the guy in the back to lay down the pedal flat, ascend to that high, heavy motion. It was enough for Neon Dreams to light up in a riotous rage. Shoot forward in a blinding burst. It was enough to make things interesting. So let’s make things bloody interesting. And here she came. Like a whirlwind of liquid radioactive light, all glow and shimmer, all splendour and shine, a pretty projectile. Pretty… and pretty fucking fast. Nova moved up the track like no one’s goddamned business. Made up some milage and narrowed the gap. She got close enough to hear Bad Boys. Heard Jax’s speakers over the uproarious sing-song of motors and petrol-guzzling engines pushing pistons to a frantic, fe-vered limit. She was joyous. Berserk with the speed. Smiled. Altered the lyrics to suit the mood. I read her lips through the zoom of my binos. What you gonna do when Nova comes for you? Bad girl, bad girl. But it wasn’t enough. There just wasn’t enough track before the chequered flag. And I ain’t talking about the drinking establishment. I’m talking about the finish-ing line. The end. Finito. And as it stood, half a track remaining, there was just no way Nova could do it. She was just too far behind. Finito, sure. Winito? Sadly, no.

Of course, I have been known to be wrong… from time to time.

* * *

And the whole goddamned world lit up. Fireworks and flame. Ablaze and blinding. A floodlight-in-your-face, phan-tasmagoria glare of not-so-gentle jesus-christ-that’s-fucking-bright. Whatever Morpheus had cooked up this time, who the hell’s to say? If it had been starters and hors d’oeuvres before, then this was a three-course meal. Fuck that. This was indi-gestible. Inedible, wholesale. Morpheus left the chicken in the oven and went out to run some errands. Forgot to check the clock. The kitchen was in flames. The whole bloody house was up in smoke. Whatever was emanating, outpouring, erupting… whatev-er was radiating outward in a cataclysmic bombardment of shimmer and gleam, it was next-level shit, I’ll tell you that. No fucking mock duck and noodles. No simple order of “today’s special.” But it was special alright. Neon Dreams was a radio-active bullet of otherworldly stuff. Nova went supernova. Was she even alive? It was too intense to have any colour, whatever it was. All I could see was searing white. Even with my eyes closed. The world turned pale. A monochromatic brand of colorless glare. Right up in your eyeballs. No one saw a thing. And if this ain’t an anticlimactic kick in the dick, then perhaps there’s no such thing… when the starlight ebbed and the world came to view once again… when shape and colour and shadow returned to retina receptive capabilities… when people risked a peek at the show they had paid good bucks to observe… when they could open their eyes and see, free from fear of going blind or writhing in pain… what did they see? What did they fucking see? The final result, that’s what. Justice and Lucky Star, sitting ducks in the middle of the track, a stone’s throw from the finishing line. Jax had killed Bad Boys, sat quiet and sullen. Ignition purring lightly, his Ferrari 488 Pista gently in idle, parked to a halt. Ariel, sitting across the hood of her rig, dead centre over that opalescent, milk-white star. Motor dormant. She twirled her keys, smoked a fag. She and Jax exchanged a look and shrugged. And frowned.

Neon Dreams, steaming, smoking. Burned to a fucking crisp. Nova’s rig was soot-black, sheathed in ash. Charbroiled, smouldering, scorched, and singed. But it remained intact, driver and all. And get this… it was on the far side of the finishing line. The good side. The winning side of the chequered flag. In the space of that blinding flash of neon supernova, shit had gone down. Shit had developed. Nova had overtaken. And just like that, she was winner of the most prestigious race on offer. The best of the best in all of the verse. Truly, now, the Neon Queen. And like every queen, she needed a crown. The loudspeakers announced it. What everyone was slow-ly coming to with. The race was over. There had been a winner. It sounded so good over the megaphone I could have wept. I could have cried, and if I’m being honest, I’m sure I must have, truth be told. Sniffing snot and wiping at the cor-ners of my eyes, I laughed out loud.

“Winner of this year’s Galactic Crown, from planet Earth, quadrant four, Troubadour, city of poets… in her Neon Dreams, victor supreme… ladies and gentlemen, Nova Bright.”

A ROYAL HEAD FUCK

“So what the hell happened?” I asked her, back on the Arachnid. “How in the hell did you come out on top?” We had left Sorbitol in a wake of congratulations and questions. Ques-tions like the one I just asked. Nova, in an instant, had been elevated to stardom. Celebrity status rubbed her the wrong way. And she had an itch for a fix. We were all hot to get out. Eager to make some tracks. Get back into space. She did the whole ceremonial crowning, the podium stand, the picture taking, handshakes, simple announcement of what’s next, and cash collection. All the formalities. But then we got up out of that shit. Took Ladybird up into high atmo and pushed the Husk into deep orbit. We took stock, and took a breath, looking down on it all. Lazily circling the jungle plan-et, Nectari. “Honestly, Nova,” I poured her a much-needed Pee Vee Dubs. Pappy Van. Liquid gold. “I haven’t the faintest clue how the fuck you won that race. Shed some light on it all, will ya?” Then my eyes went wide. I realized what I said. “Then again, perhaps not. No more light. I got my fill. But I will take some explanation. Some truth… if you even know it for yourself, that is.” She downed the brown. Let out a long, slow sigh. Tweaked her glass. Tink-tink. I spoke the code. I knew what she wanted. Encore, up to the brim. I obliged. She drank. And then she was ready to tell me. “It was the dream that had me in tears,” she told me. “That godawful nightmare. The one from the night we came back from Muscovado.” The one that had you weeping in my arms... yes, I remem-ber that well. “But what was it?” Curiosity drove me to a cer-tain insensitivity. I didn’t want to prod for the sake of prodding, but I’d prod a good deal if it got me some sweet deets. I went half-blind in the face of that light. I should at least like to know what it had been that had near stolen my vision. That had won Nova the race. “It was Morpheus’ neon manifestation of Sugar Daddy.”

The Sweetener System’s immense, dying star. “Well, that explains the light!” “I had dreamed of August floating dead in a casket. Spin-ning, slowly, through empty black space. A frozen corpse, butchered and cast to the cosmos... on a collision course with a molten sphere of astronomical dimension.” “Just think of it as an elaborate cremation,” I was only try-ing to help, but it got me a disgusted, reproachful look. “Except that when he came within a certain proximity to Sugar Daddy... when his body began to smolder... he started to wake up. He was alive, after all. But it was too late. The heat was too much. And it just kept getting hotter and hotter.” She struggled with the memory of her dream. “His skin began to split and crack and ooze bodily fluids and blood. His hair took flame and his lips turned black. He clawed at the casket, but his fingers turned to ash and broke off in clumps, clean from his hands. He screamed and moaned and called out my name. August writhed in a fit of terrorized panic, of absolute agony.” I could see now that Nova was close to tears. “His face contort-ed, broke open, blood gurgled and muffled the screams. And all the while—” “That’s enough, Nova.” I took her hand. Felt it trembling. “That’s quite enough.” She finished her thought anyway. “And all the while things just got hotter. Hotter and brighter.” She looked up at me, eyes glassy with emotion. “It was the worst dream I’ve ever had. The worst fucking dream I’m not likely to ever forget. First I dreamed it... then I lived it.” We all had, to a degree. Those of us in the crowd. Those of us on the track and in the race. But no one had quite like Nova. She got the brunt. She experienced it full on. And so too, did her fabulous ride. Neon Dreams was scrap. Unfit for a race. Unfit for a Sun-day drive. Half melted and seared to corrosion, only its mega-plastic workings and skeletal implements held it together. They remained undamaged, good salvageable parts. But so much of the rest of her... her frame, her motor, her console... all of it was fucked. So badly, badly fucked. A write-off, most of it. Irredeemable. Junk. Morpheus took some surface damaged but on the whole, was in considerable good nick. Fully functional, the device had been removed from the ruined remains of Neon Dreams. What use, if any, it would find in the future was far

from my concern, far from my interest. Except, perhaps, that it may fetch a good price. Nova herself emerged from her rig, disheveled and steaming, here and there smeared with soot and patches of ash. Her bright leather banana leather had turned all gross and soiled. Browned and blackened. Half burned from her body she was only half-clad, half-naked... it was enough to give me half a boner. But despite the damage to her car Neon Dreams had been heat-propelled into first place. Had crossed the finishing line before her foes. And what of them? What of Jax and Ariel? Of Justice and Lucky Star? They had been blinded in a whiteout. Bleached and bombarded by the intense light of a stupendous supernova splash. So they hit the breaks. What else could they do? Did they even have a choice? They’d be crazy to cruise on forward. Who in their right mind would do that? Only Nova. The crazy bitch. That awesome, bad-ass babe with a monster pair of balls and a “fuck-it” stubborn willful conviction. Only she had faced the glaring onslaught of the neon ghost of Sugar Daddy and spat up into its big pale face. She shrugged and cast a long dark shadow behind her. On-ward-fucking-ho! She considered her options and found only one: victory. Where others had thought it prudent to kill the advance, to water down the heat, to ease the speed, to call it quits, Nova thought else wise. She laid out all her chips and didn’t even bother to look at her hand. Who knows what thoughts went on inside her crazy head during that moment? If it had been me, I’d be doing less think-ing and more shitting in my pants. But Nova, she’s a real tough cookie and no small slice of hard-ass. I bet she had been as cool as a cat in a lap. As calm as a toad in the sun. I imagined her thoughts and could almost hear them, bold as brass. Well, she had considered, in the heat of the moment. I can’t see for shit... can’t see a damned thing... my rig is getting hotter than a Stevia-6 centerfold oiled up in extra-hot pepper sauce... it’s all smokin’ up real good... I’m as like to die as win the day... I think I’ll plow on forward... push the pedal to the metal. Push the needle a tad bit further. Health and safety? What are those next to the need for speed? No just-in-case. No playing it safe. It’s all vroom and velocity, baby. It’s victory or bust. And fuck the rest.

And that’s how she came out on top. I didn’t press for more. That gave me what I needed. I con-gratulated Nova and left her with the bottle of Pappy Van. “Help yourself,” I told her. “You’ve earned a good drink.” “Like I need your permission,” she smiled as I walked away. Tomorrow we’d be heading off across the Sweetener Sys-tem. We’d make astral tracks in the Arachnid. We’d be off to Agave Prime, the seat of the throne. We’d climb the Ivory Tower, to have audience with Prince. In victory of the Galactic Crown, we had been rewarded a personal congratulations by the reigning lord of the galaxy, the king of the cosmos, the sovereign of the stars. The highest of honorary tips-of-the-hat, claps-over-the-shoulder. Tomorrow we’d be in the presence of our lawful master, our royal leader, and respective to the crew, our hated enemy, our arch-nemesis, and our target of in-tended murder. Tomorrow we’d shake hands with the richest, most powerful man in the known universe. Tomorrow we’d settle some scores. Tomorrow we had rather big plans... Tomorrow, we’d be killing a king. And the day after that? And every day after... every single day until we expire or got caught... we’d be fugitives on the run. Forever and a day. I resigned to the notion. Any nerves I may have had were long used up. I spent them all on various crazy shit shows and car races across the galaxy. I was tapped out. I was past giving a fuck. I knew what had to be done and I was prepared to do it. Plain and simple. I sighed and shrugged. And hit the hay. I slept like a fucking baby.

* * *

And tomorrow became today. We arrived in orbit around Agave Prime. We were

ready to rock. Me, Nova, and Drayke. All except Cindy. She was busy finishing off a round of When Harry Met Sally. On deck? What else, When Harry Met Sally. Even after I scrapped her Billy Crystal, rom-com obsessed neuroses from her programming I couldn’t help but reintro-duce her to the film. Call it a test of soul in artificial intelligence. Call it a social experiment. Call it a whim. Call it whatever you bloody like. I couldn’t resist. Cindy belonged with that film. They were made to be together. So the gossip gal was busy doing her thing. She’d stay behind in the Arachnid while our trio went off to kill a king. Except it wasn’t a trio. There would be four of us assigned to the mission. And before you even guess I’ll have you know it’s not one of the flesh and blood cats, not Malice, Malachi, or Malik. And it wasn’t vampyre’s best friend, the robodog, Rin Tin Tin. It wasn’t one of the nanobots, obviously, or even one of the macrodroids, what would be the point? So when Drayke stopped our soldier march on over to Ladybird and told us we had to detour to the cryochamber... when he told us that there would be one more ing us on our quest for revenge... I was more than a little confused. Nova was perplexed and angered. We both jumped to the same conclusion. Grim. “There’s no fucking way!” Nova protested. “Yeah, man,” I agreed. “I’m with Nova on this one. I’ve seen enough of that giant-sized asshole. First in the flesh and then as a phosphorescent phantom. Waking him up... I call that a real shit idea, Draykie.” But he assured us that it wasn’t to be Grim that we’d awaken. It wasn’t that giant-sized asshole that would be ing us after all. So who in the fuck could it be? Who the hell would be coming along for our Saturday afternoon regi-cide? I think Drayke must have been getting off on the built-up suspense because he didn’t explain a thing. Just ushered us into that cold, creepy room. Mist and vapour clung to the floor, up to our ankles. Ice beds in a neat row. He worked the console to activate the thaw. The waking up. Of who? Who the fuck knows? No one but Drayke. A soft hiss of released air pressure and a series of blips and lit-up dials announced the process complete. The thaw had finished. The hatch popped open.

And rising, groggy, but no less gorgeous than I ed, stretching away the stiff ts and hazy cobwebs from her three-week sleep in icy con-finement... Eliza Strange. “Good morning, sweet sister.” Drayke offered her a hand. Nova stared, mouth agape. “What the...” “Fuck?” I was in a similar state of shock. “Pleased to see me, no doubt,” Eliza sneered our way. Took Drayke’s hand and rose, graceful, to her feet. She did that floating thing. Looked especially cool with the fog billowing up against her skirts. “And good morning to you, dear brother.” The vamps embraced. “Tell me,” she asked of Drayke, “Did the neon bitch win the race? Is all according to plan?” Nova put her hands on her hips. Tilted her head all oh-hell-no-girl. “Um... that ‘neon bitch’ is standing right fucking here, you cold, dead cunt. And shit-yeah I won the race. You’re lookin’ at the best in the galaxy, honey. So show some R.E.S.P.E.C.T.” She waged her finger, tsk-tsk, head shimmied from side to side, all uh-uh no you didn’t. Eliza smiled, unmoved beyond professional optimism. “Good,” she declared. “Then we can get on with this business and go kill that heinous man.” “Now wait just one mother-fuck of a goddamned minute,” Nova shouted. “What the big-ass pair of flopping tits is this bitch doing here, Drayke? What’s up with the surprise guest?” “Eliza is here to help us,” he said calmly and matter of fact. “We’re all here to get the job done.” It wasn’t enough for Nova. “But she has no right to be here.” She complained. “She has nothing to do with it. This is no business of hers!” And Eliza did her creepy glide across the floor. No steps to her motion. Just a beeline hover. She closed the gap between herself and Nova. In a blink of an eye, she was right up in her grill. That scary, sexy vamp grabbed Nova from under the

chin and clamped her fingers firm around her lower jaw. All scold-ing, condescending, and dominatrix. She leaned in real close and said, no-nonsense, “we share more in common than you think, stupid girl. So shut the fuck up and take the helping hand. We are here for the same reason.” She pushed Nova’s face aside. Turned to leave the room. Drayke must have seen that Nova was rather stunned. Still very much confused. So he calmly explained. “Eliza lost a sib-ling, same as you. My fiancé, her sister, Lilith. In abuse and mistreatment, she was driven to death by Prince. She has every right to be a part of this. Every right as much as you or me.” He turned to follow Eliza. Turned to leave behind that frosty, below-zero chamber. “Now come on,” he said at the exit. “Let’s fucking go.” I put a hand on Nova’s shoulder. “Better an ally than an enemy,” I said. “Even if she is a bitch.” And we followed the two vampyres into the docking bay, boarded Ladybird. Got ready for the big mish. It was just before we were all about to do the tummy-fuck plunge. The big drop down onto the surface of Agave Prime. Strapped up, buckled down, T-minus countdown from ninety. I had something on my mind. Something I wanted to clear up. I just had to ask. “So why the cold sleep?” I asked of Drayke, referring to Eliza. “Why was sleeping beauty put under ice? Why camp out in the freezer when we had plenty of comfortable rooms. Hell… she could have bunked with me if we didn’t have a spare.” “Over my dead body,” Eliza said. I don’t think she thought the phrase through…. being a vamp and all. Already dead and all that. “Well, yeah,” I said and winked. “That’s sort of what I had in mind. That’s where I’d like to be.” Eliza couldn’t help but smirk, despite her misuse of the saying. Despite setting me up. “Well then,” she corrected, “over your dead body.” I chuckled. “But seriously… why the cryo-sleep? Not e-nough Ichnor-snax packs on board? Surely we had enough food stocks…” Drayke smiled, but when he spoke it was without a trace of humour, “I just

didn’t think the dynamic would be right,” he explained. “It was bad enough trying to keep you two in check,” He nodded over to me and Nova. “With Eliza in the mix… who’s to say where our morale may be. The last thing I needed was tempers to flare.” I frowned. “Seems a bit dramatic though. Three weeks of Z on ice? I don’t know… seems overkill.” Drayke looked at me. Continued to smile. Then he ex-plained in all seriousness, without a hint of exaggeration or an inkling of jest, “If Eliza had been with us all of this time it is just as like Nova would have never won that race. She would not have won it because she would not be alive at the time of the event. Eliza would have killed her within the first few days of our journey. The first few hours, perhaps. The fact is, Zap, I myself may not be alive, or in any event, as I am pseudo-living, may no longer be a functioning, conscious and aware being. My existence, as like as not, would have been snuffed out by her rage. You, for certain, would have died long ago.” He leaned in close. His breath smelled of Bnegative plasma. “You see,” he whispered, “Eliza’s temper is something mythical. She has within her a monstrous rage that exceeds what anyone could dare to believe. She can’t control it. Or can, but loves losing it too much to try. She’s as dangerous a crea-ture as any single man or woman, human, robo or vamp that’s out there in the cosmos. She is far more powerful than me, Zap. She’s a ticking time bomb. A short fuse to an untimely death. A countdown to chaos.” I looked over at Eliza Strange. Looked past her sexy charm. Saw her differently. She felt my gaze and returned it. I gulped. And we did the old tummy-fuck drop.

* * *

We stood at the base of the Ivory Spire, the seat of the throne, the house of rule over all of the galaxy. The immensity of its vertical stature was staggering.

Twice again as tall as Poet’s Pride back home, it soared well above the clouds. Or would have, if today had not been clear and blue skies. Despite its prodigious height, the Ivory Spire remained a slender, almost fragile thing. Its width in relation to the rest of its towering structure seemed flimsy at best. Far too narrow and delicate. The next strong wind was sure to blow it over. Or so it seemed. Any assumptions of fragility, however, despite appear-ances, were far from wellfounded notions. The tower was strong. Solid as the foundations that belonged to a mountain. ing the structure upward, providing its central spine, driven deep below the earth to anchor and hold it firm, an unbroken pillar of fused megaplastic vertebrae. Massive flat, circular blocks, stacked one atop the other, high and heaven-ward, like some god’s or titan’s child’s building blocks. Chemically bonded as one, it was by far and away, by no small mar-gin, the most expensive single item in the galaxy. The expense of its construction, the value of its worth… sums of this nature would summit such gross and blazon margins of wanton, shameless decadence as to dribble candied syrup over that which is already overly saccharine. The structure a symbol of sheer vanity. Lofty, mountainous greed. Its existence a gesture of overkill. The Ivory fucking Spire… Mega—mega—dollar bills. From the base, the top was lost from view. But the image of the Ivory Spire was well represented all across the galaxy. In pictures and films and news, in political propaganda, stamped onto paper cash we all used, engraved into the coins we squandered, described in history, real or false, told about in literature, fiction or non, portrayed in art and displayed in models. So even as it was, unable to see it while standing from far below, level with the ground, I knew what awaited above. At its peak, the tower spread outward to form a wide, domed, circular top. High up in the heavens, nicknamed Angel’s Roost, a platform with gazillion-dollar views and the royal apart-ments. A small, ultra-posh, village in the sky. The Ivory Spire, if viewed as a whole, looked very much like a slender white mushroom. Its stalk, exaggerated to com-ical dimensions, its cap, by comparison, a tiny half bubble of glass. The elevator ride that traversed its vertical shaft would take a long fucking time. And at present, it seemed to be guarded.

A pair of sentries. Unusual guards, those two. They barred our way and glared. “You and you, you’re not welcome here,” one of them told us. She pointed at Drayke and Eliza. “And come to think of it, neither are you,” the other one pointed at me. They were super hot fembots. Sleek and spicy cyborgs. Robo babes. Synthetic and sexy. Between them, I couldn’t de-cide which one I’d rather fuck. In the end, I chose the one on the left. Not because she was hotter, but because she was shorter. I love a cute pretty pixie. Someone to make me feel big. Those gynoid bitches were hot as hell but they weren’t built for fucking. They were built for combat. And right about now, they were looking everyone but Nova over with a fair dose of ill will and violent intent. Drayke seemed to know who they were. “Pixel and Bit,” he declared. “Two of the seven High Ser-vants. Personal bodyguards to Prince.” “The High Seven,” Nova said. “Like Grim.” But they were far from anything like that uncouth, extra-extra-large bastard. These girls were state-of-the-art hotties. All angles and curves and bounce. They were clearly robot, only human at first glance. But they had it where it counts, and where it wasn’t perfectly real it was deliciously artificial. They had me stiff, anyways. I had to pinch myself to this was a rather crucial moment. Focus, man. Focus. But I didn’t have to. Eliza stood up to the plate. “I’ll handle these two,” she said. “You guys go on ahead.” Sizing her up, she didn’t look like much. But Drayke’s recent words echoed in my head: she’s as dangerous a creature as any man or woman, human, robo or vamp that’s out there in the cosmos. I couldn’t vouch for Pixel and Bit, apart from their sex appeal. A-plus, that. But I was willing to bet they could pack their own punch, High Seven and all. It was sure to be a wicked bout. And it was.

Or at least it started that way. We got inside the lift and punched the button for the top. I pressed against the glass and looked below. Eliza did her thing. Real fast. Real violent. Pixel and Bit were manic, shifty things. They moved erratically. Here then there. Darting, pouncing, dashing forward, back, and to the side. But Eliza kept pace. Matched and outmatched. She was a real beast. Fast as shit. And crazy strong. The last thing I saw before we ascended high and out of view was Pixel—or maybe it was Bit. She ran in at jesus-christ-that’s-fast-as-hell and threw a heavy punch right at Eliza’s face. The vamp sidestepped the robo babe like it was nothing, easy. Caught her fist and forearm and tore it loose from her torso. Wires sizzled and popped and spat out sparks. They flayed about like dozens of snakes, each one screaming in a hot, electric fizz. Eliza used the robot’s own arm to continue to beat her. Then all below was lost in the continued climb of our summit. That journey upward went on and on. Took a bloody long time. I was feeling nostalgic. Feeling old, familiar vibes. I recalled that first ascension with Nova up to her pad. That slow climb in the lift to floor fifty-something. I used the mirrors to check out her ass. I hardly knew her then. I hadn’t even learned her name. I had been on my way to work... a regular old evening. Fuck’s sake... now I’m light-years some-where else. Going up and up and up to what? Kill a fucking king. I guess there’s not really much of a comparison. That elevator ride up to Nova’s flat, and... this. This was a whole different kettle of holy shit. This was epic. A king-sized what-the-fuck. A real “wow, this is actually happening” moment. Something else different about it... the view. While I was missing that choice glimpse of Nova’s ass in the not-so-pol-ished brass lining to the elevator compartment of her vamp-friendly flat, I gotta say, the view offered here... truly remark-able. Grand meets stunning and gives birth to something greater than the sum of their parts. The Vista was large-scale magnificence. Far-reaching and awesome. It took my very breath away. Agave Prime was scarcely populated, and here it was nothing but a haphazard jumble of boulders and jagged rock. They stretched, a chaotic mess, a vast field of disarray, before erupting in a sheer skyward cliff far off on the horizon. That rock-face wall, so very far away, was bathed in the warm orange glow of Sugar

Daddy. Spread out across that immense barren field of unforgiving landscape, as far and further than the eye could see, the endless long shadow cast by the backdrop of that lazy dying star... the shadow of the galaxy’s proudest architectural feat... the shadow of the Ivory Spire. The shadow of the king. The higher we climbed the more fantastic the view. We stood in silence and took it all in, me, Nova, and Drayke. How long it actually had taken to get to the top? I couldn’t even guess. Ten minutes? An hour? An afternoon? Time stood still in that surreal, magical moment. But the images that I took in will stick with me for life. I’m not soon to forget that severe and bleak beauty. Those cold, stark vibes that accompanied our climb to the pinnacle of that tower, to the very pinnacle of our entire journey. The elevator stopped. “We’re here,” Drayke announced. “This is it,” I gulped back my nerves. Nova took a step forward. “Let’s fucking do this.”

And the doors opened inward.

* * *

Inside, the glass dome was set to moderate opacity. So our eyes took some time to adjust from the elevator’s natural glare. But when they did we saw one ugly metal bastard. Prince. And he was... one ugly metal bastard. He didn’t wear a synthetic skin, a plasticized epidermis to sheath his metallic frame. He didn’t even wear clothes. He was proud of his body. His artificial presence. The only thing he wore was a

rich, crimson cape. It billowed in the wind. Wind? What wind? We were indoors. Two internal fans on either side of his lower back blew out hot air, buffeting his cape. Did they have a practical function or was it all for show? The vain bastard. It was probably for show. From head to toe, he was an ungainly, disted thing. His form a jumbled construction of haphazard, clunky parts. Doubtless, he was strong. Durable, to be sure. He would last next as long as eternity. He would be compatible with upgrades and replacements as they become available. His body would ever and always improve. Always be the best. And who knows, maybe one day he wouldn’t look like shit. But today, as it stands in the present time, Prince was one ugly mother fucker. A bona fide ugo for the ages. The worst part about it, the thing that made Prince look so particularly bad, the thing that turned his semblance from would-be impressive to rather horrific, were his eyes. Those normal, animal eyes. They were the last biological remnant. The only human feature that remained. The majority of his brain and some of his internal workings retained their original flesh-and-blood aspect. Without them, his “self” would have been lost in the artificial transfer. But the only external, visible portion of his body, the only non-metallic, non-synthetic ele-ment on display, were those ghastly eyes. Ghastly, because they were not. They were normal. They were actually rather lovely. They were almost pretty, those big baby blues. Lidless and lash-less, a built-in drip-feed dropper secreted saline as needed. Nanobots swam unseen in the sur-face fluids of Prince’s eyes and relayed measurements of mois-ture and dryness to the internally installed mechanism. The contrast of those human eyes set within the otherwise metallic husk of the man before us... it was off-putting and utterly creepy. “Greetings, my friends,” he announced and spread his arms in a warm gesture of welcome. Okay... maybe I spoke too soon. His eyes were bad, but his voice just may be worse. It was all at once both high and low. Like two people speaking at once. The high end seemed natur-al. Authentic. Human. The low-end metallic. Robotic. Elec-tronic. Perhaps it was a pairing of both his natural voice from genuine vocal tissues going through an electronic filter to emulate a tone more stately, more intimidating, more grand. The effect was unpleasant. It certainly

added to a growing creep factor. “There are more of you than I was expecting,” he smiled. His teeth were chrome. They shimmered metallic. “But who complains about more where friends are concerned?” He turned to Nova. “Congratulations to you, Nova Bright, you and your companions are now among my own.” “We’re no companions of yours, you royal, metal fuck.” Nova wasted no time. Jeesh... here we go! “Yeah,” Drayke said and took a step forward. “And we’re not your friends either, you unnatural, disgraceful cunt.” Prince didn’t stop smiling. It was hard to read his mood, the variations of expression limited by his metal face, but at a guess, he seemed jovial. His voice gave indication if nothing else. His body language read relaxed and unconcerned. “What’s this?” He asked. “Discourtesies in my own home? Slurs and slights for your rightful, lawful lord? And here I thought I greeted good friends.” Prince was putting it on. Lay-ing it on thick. Amused. Sarcastic. He met threat with cool, calm disregard. I took that as a bad sign. “We told you, tin dick,” Nova shouted. “We’re not your friends.” “Oh, how terribly sad.” Prince mocked being hurt. “And I thought you were here to enjoy the benefits of my good gener-ous nature. I thought you were here to be my buddy.” “Buddy,” she said, “we’re here to kill your ass dead. That’s the long and the short of it. So if you still want to dole out some of that good generous nature be a pal and shut the fuck up, sit tight, and let us end your filthy, disgusting, and absurd exis-tence.” At this Prince laughed. Long and hard. No mockery here. That was genuine amusement. It echoed long after he stopped, repeated several times in the vaulted heights. “And which one of you, out of curiosity, will be doing the murder today?” He asked. “Which one of you thinks they have it in them to kill a king? Moreover,” and here he chuckled, “which one of you sor-ry lot thinks they stand

any chance whatsoever in harming me even in the slightest?” He looked us over, lofty and patronizing. All condescending. It seemed to communicate a certain lack of confidence in our purpose here, that look. As if to suggest to us we may as well throw some pubes and at a tree to knock it down. “Come now,” he said in true, “who’s to take me on?” “That’ll be me.” Drayke stepped forward. His look said it all. Like his intentions, those eyes were murderous. I would not like to have been Prince at that moment. “A vampyre, is it?” Prince seemed genuinely curious. “Tell me, dark soul, do I know you?” If Drayke had seemed murderous before then he was now absolutely seething with explosive venomous rage. “Don’t you play dumb you wretched freak-show fuck. Don’t you dare play dumb you heinous hunk of hardware.” Prince, still smiling, shrugged. “If I seem dumb then I’m afraid to say I may be genuinely stupid. Because I promise you, vamp man, I ain’t playing around. I haven’t the faintest idea who in the fuck you are.” “Lies!!” Drayke raged and blew his top. No. Literally. He tore off his top. Ripped his shirt to ribbons. He flexed his well-toned alabaster muscular form and attacked his own body. Raked at his arms with those goth-popular long nails. “Don’t have a cow, man,” Prince grinned and provoked. Drayke went to town on his own flesh. Long strands came off in strips. He tore at them and cast them aside. He held up his arms on display. “Behold, you diabolical demon!” He hissed at Prince. “See what I’ve been saving for you. See what I’ve been saving for this moment.” He had no wounds. There was no blood. Where he had decimated his own flesh something strange shown through. Beneath his torn skin was a metallic shimmer. Robotic arms. Megaplastic appendages. Harder than steel. “My, my,” said Prince. “Who’s the heinous hunk of hard-ware now?” Drayke foamed at the mouth. He was a livid train wreck. Mount Vesuvius on steroids. Ready to fucking blow. “I had these installed just for you, my sweet Prince. Now come,” he screamed. “Come and accept my gift!”

And he flew across the room. Or seemed to. Fuck me blind he was fast! He was almost too fast to see. And he ran in a direct route right at Prince. And just as Eliza had easily dealt with Pixel—or was it Bit?—so too did Prince have an easy outing with Drayke. The vampyre onrush was met by the metal king with impartial, lukewarm nonchalance. Lazy and effortless, bored, the intend-ed onslaught was neutralized by Prince. Megaplastic grated upon megaplastic. Sparks flew on hard impact. And a series of viper-strike martial arts moves, heavily empowered by un-dead physical superiority, augmented and supercharged by robotic prosthetic, were deflected and countered, one after the other. All the while Prince had never stopped smiling. And when Drayke began to tire out, when his rage could no longer carry him onward to any further, frantic outpour of violence... he stopped and paused for a ragged breath. And when Prince began to tire too... tire of the simple game of rudimentary self defence... when his amusement slowed to crawl and his patience began to wear thin... it marked the turn of the tide. It marked the end. Prince reached out and calmly took hold of Drayke’s shoul-ders. He surveyed the vampyre’s metallic appendages, one then the next. His smile, at last, had faded from a now angry chrome visage. “They really don’t suit you,” he opined. And he tore the vampyre apart, limb from limb. He didn’t stop with the robotic arms. Next, he wrenched from the rest of Drayke’s body his legs, and last, his head. Unceremoniously tossed with disinterest, that beautiful, heartthrob, handsome head. Long luscious locks trailing behind it as it rolled across the floor. My eyes went wide. My jaw fell to my feet. And just like that, Drayke Silverstem was no more. Dead. Not vampyre dead. Actually dead. The Night’s of Our Lives will never be the same. Ratings will plummet. Rachel Waters will be lonely as fuck. I turned to look back at the elevator shaft, hopeful. Not so much that it would provide an escape route, but that Eliza might make a timely appearance. Give Prince a run for his money. Rough him up. Show him a piece of her mind. No such luck. So I decided to make my mark. Make some waves. Make a splash. I curled up

my toes and got ready to hang fucking ten. I grabbed my Colt .45 and aimed true. Finger on the trigger. I rode Big Blue. BANG!! Surfs up, motherfucker. And I shot the king. I shot him square in the face. And that was that. Retribution, regicide, revenge. Check, check, and check. Except not. Not, not and not. The bullet ricocheted clean off of his megaplastic face plate. Prince had been unharmed, remained undamaged. Hell… I don’t even think he noticed. I aimed again. Held Big Blue out and looked down the barrel. Had that royal pain in the anus perfect in my sights. Pulled the trigger, bang bang bang, until it went click. Pulled it a few more times in a desperate panic. With no effect. To no avail. I hadn’t even scratched the surface. Didn’t even make a dent. Unscathed and uncaring, Prince ignored me forthright. I would have blushed except I was way too scared to be embar-rassed. Rather than pay me any mind, he instead looked down upon Drayke. Studied the disemboweled corpse. “It’s amusing, really,” he remarked and gave the vampyre corpse a little prod with an outstretched megaplastic foot. “To think... he threw away his life. A wasted gesture. Not only did he have zero chance against me, outmatched and outclassed, his pitiful attempt to harm me far short of the mark... an exer-cise of utter futility. Not only that, but he so brazenly cast his existence to the wind and did so without even knowing... with-out even knowing he had the wrong man. That his revenge on Prince is already complete. That Prince is no longer. Dead and gone. That I killed the bastard myself.” Wait. What?! I was confused. I looked over to Nova. Her face said it all... we were both confused. Confused to shit. “What?” Nova asked. “Is that some sort of poetic, meta-phorical bullshit? That you’re no longer the Prince that was? The man you used to be. That you are something more... that you are reborn. Is that it? Now that you’ve got your new, fancy metal suit?” She spat. “Fuck that. And fuck your aluminum asshole. You’re the same stupid bitch you always were. You’re the same measly, little cunt you will always be.” “That’s a harsh thing to say,” Prince chuckled. “Especially cruel. What an unreasonably mean-spirited thing to say to your brother.”

Nova was fearless. Too angry to care about consequence or safety. Too fucked off to hold back. “Eat shit, metal man. You’re no brother of mine.” Prince crossed the gap between them. Not fast. But ultra-fast. I didn’t see him move. I must have blinked. Because in one split second he stood across a wide stretch of room, and in the space of another he was right up on Nova. Right up in her face. He held her by the shoulders just as he had with Drayke and I thought for sure she was to receive similar treat-ment. That she’d be torn apart, limb from bloody limb. Luckily, however, that was not the case. I think I pissed my pants. Instead, Prince held her firm and leaned in close. Really fucking close. Their noses touched. Metal to flesh. Nova’s ba-by blues were level with his own. Eye to eye. An inch between them. And that’s when I noticed. And so too must have Nova. Because the piss and vinegar leaked out from her in a hurry. She blanched and trembled. Shook and sputtered. But it wasn’t in fear. It was in full-blown shock. It was his eyes. Those awful eyes. Those normal, human, pleasant eyes... they were a mirror image of Nova’s own. They were to each other a matching set. An identical pair. Exactly the same. Twins. Those eyes... those baby blues set deep within their metal frame... they didn’t belong to Prince. They belonged to August Bright. Talk about a royal head fuck! “No,” Nova whimpered. “No, it’s not true.” Her own eyes were wide. They reflected horror, streaming tears down her face. “Look into my eyes, sister.” Prince/August, himself, emo-tional. “Look into these eyes that you’ve looked upon your entire life. Look into these eyes and know them to be your brother’s.” He let her go. Released his grip. Stroked her wet cheek with a cold, metal knuckle. Wiped her tears. “August...” Nova gave in. “Brother,” and she stroked his own metal face with her hands of soft flesh. But the tender moment didn’t last. Nova’s foot edged against Drayke’s severed head. Shock and revulsion returned to her. She pushed herself from Prince, or August, or whoever the fuck. She distanced herself and recoiled back by my

side. All the while she never looked away from those eyes. Baby blue eyes that looked so very much like her own. Eyes that in fact belonged not to her king or to Prince… nor were they eyes belonging to the enemy. But eyes, so familiar, belonging to her brother and best friend. Eyes that now looked back into her own with genuine affection. “But how does this make any sense?” She wondered. Shak-ing, she took me by the arm. “How is any of this even fucking possible?” She asked. “Tell me. Tell me now. Tell me... August. Tell me... brother.” And the metal man that was not Prince but was in fact August Bright hummed an emotional electronic sigh, high and low at once.

And he gave us his explanation.

* * *

So here’s the skinny. The juicy deets. Here’s how it all went down. August gave us the back story. August, who was not Prince, but Nova’s brother, who was no longer flesh and blood, but a metallic mock sovereign. Him. He dished out the facts. This shit had me scratching my head. Still, I keyed in. Listened hard and hopeful. Hopeful this crazy-ass weirdness would all make some bloody sense. “He was a mad man,” August began. “Wildly eccentric and prone to odd ideas.” Prince—the real Prince—had claimed to have had what he referred to as a divine revelation. An image sent from God. A psychic transfer of thought and vision delivered to him from the collective consciousness of the cosmos and all its beings and matter within. This image of divinity? A wholly synthe-sized impervious self. A transfer of the soul from biological to artificial. Something to

house, eternal and durable, his royal magnificence, he, the Forever King. So Prince had rounded up the galaxy’s shortlist of top cyberneticists. Whittled it down to the best of the best. Found August and became acquainted with him. Assigned to him the final placement that filled the remaining vacancy amongst the Seven High Servants. That vacancy, incidentally, had been cre-ated by the sudden disappearance and self-imposed exile of Leon Silverstem. Small world. Now in possession of the brightest mind in cybernetic science, the galaxy’s top genius in thrall, Prince commissioned August to achieve in physical form the notion of his perfect conception. To head the research and development of what will be the ultimate creation. The most powerful and sophisti-cated, technologically advanced, and state-of-the-art artificial bipedal outfit. In short, the best rig in the verse. It became Au-gust’s task to oversee the construction of a one-off production of Prince’s “divine revelation.” To be, in essence, the god that gives birth to a greater god. So he got on it. Flexed his cyberneticist muscle. Worked those genius cogs. Oiled them with dedication and an innate, natural proficiency. And the brilliant bastard did it. Did it in spades. And did it in double time, too. The young mastermind made good. The cyber savant delivered. ing all scrutinized checks and tests it had been confirmed... the robotic rig was fit for a king. The gear was suited for a god. And that shit gleamed and glinted something hardcore. It was primed and ready. It awaited in-stallation. Now making a long story short, because there were some tedious motherfucking strings to be pulled, some goddamned irksome knots to unravel, to make things work as they had. There were more layers to this tale than a fucking onion. There was backstory, mate, and not a lot of it very interesting. So let’s cut to the chase. Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty-shitty. August, having created the final prosthetic makeover for Prince, having everything ready to go, everything put into place, surgical transfer, all systems go, the whole thing ar-ranged and meticulously planned out... instead of going with the flow, instead of transferring his master’s soul into that pristine technological shell that would turn him into the eternal lord, the forever king, to rule supreme beyond the dur-ation of the stars themselves... August seized it for himself. Plum nabbed the shit, clean. Jacked it, forthright.

The real Prince he murdered. Gave him a generous over-dose of anesthesia for the transfer. The transfer that August would now perform on his own body. Paid off the medical team that was present. Wiped the memory of the surgical bots and doctor droids. Covered all corners. Left no trace behind. And when he emerged from the operation, metallic and gleaming, who was to say that he was not, in fact, their Prince. Who would have reason to doubt? The only trace or clue to mischief left behind... August’s distinguished baby blues. Those human peepers that had been left el natural. But there was nothing for it. Prince had made known his insistence to retain his eyes, the eccentric bastard. It was common knowledge amongst the galactic court that that biological feature would remain. Lucky for August they were of a similar hue. Not exact, but close enough. Who, after all, would question their king? So there you have it. How August became Prince that is not Prince. That metallic horror before us. He hijacked the king’s identity, masquerading, unquestioned, as the Galaxy’s all-powerful overlord. In one stroke August elevated himself to both the most physically and politically powerful entity in the known universe. The richest asshole in the galaxy. He had become, through diabolical schemes, the dreaded Forever King. And a sudden realization hit me like a kick in the dick. A real now-wait-just-onefucking-minute moment. Something occurred to me that didn’t quite add up. So I called for a team timeout. Whispered to Nova what was on my mind. “Okay, so here’s what’s chafing my taint the wrong way...” “Give it to me, Zap.” So I did. “Goes like this...” And I brought to the surface some incongruencies with the overall picture. Some things that had me head-scratching. “Under Drayke’s charmed enchantment, during the inter-rogation at the Tonga Hideaway on Muscavado... Grim had said that Oat had slit August’s throat in his own house. He had killed August and his Roborg lover. If Grim’s mind was slave to the influence of Drayke’s charm, if he had to tell the truth, then how does that explain the current situation?”

“Well, smash my fanny, Zap!” Nova’s rather rude exclama-tion seemed all the dirtier, whispered as it was in my ear. It was that extra-level crude that catches you off-guard. Even in these tense situations, it sends your mind to wander. “You’ve got yourself a point, mate.” Drayke had sensed that Grim was holding something back, resisting the charm. It bothered him for days. Depressed the shit out of him. And he wasn’t wrong to feel that way. Turns out Grim had achieved more than simple resistance... he was flat out lying. Giving us false details and fabrications. All the while under an advanced level charm. So much for being the simpleminded brute. Though he did play the part rather well. We had him tagged, all brawn, hold the brains. Grim, it would seem, possessed a robust constitu-tion, an especially strong mind, and an even stronger willpow-er. Or he did, in any case, before we concussed him to shit and put his ass on ice. Meeting adjourned, we asked August about it. Told him to smooth out the wrinkles in all the details. I mean, who’s to say? The guy could be stringing us along. Toying with our minds. Fucking with Nova for the sake of sheer perversity. Emotional sadism. I wasn’t convinced... maybe it was Prince after all? If he could manage a full-body transfer into an artificial mega-plastic casing, then surely he could have taken August’s eyes if he fancied. They were, after all, that rather lovely shade of baby blue. “It’s me,” he vouchsafed. “August Bright,” he assured. And he went on to recall various memories and nostalgic moments, all from the childhood he shared with Nova. “It’s me,” he re-peated. “You must believe me.” “Must we?” Nova sneered. She didn’t want to believe him. It was easier to think of him as Prince. Easier to see him for the metal construct that he was; a grotesque semblance of a man. A perversion of science. Much easier, that, than to look upon the same and notify it as her dear, beloved brother. She had come here, after all, to kill a king. Her resolve was set, had stewed and boiled within her. Had marinated over the last few weeks in an intense hatred and a need for vengeance. At this stage, it was almost a regret to learn that Prince had already been killed. And much more so, still, that the thing that resem-bled him, exactly, the metal science project before her eyes, was in fact her fraternal twin.

But better know the truth, I say, even if that truth is a bitter pill that’s hard to swallow. Even if it’s no funsie. August made his case. Clarified a thing or two. When asked about the corpse in the casket on a collision course with Sugar Daddy he happily revealed its identity. You guessed it. Prince. And the roborg lover? What of her? Also Princes? Not actually. She was August’s. But killing her spun a more convincing thread. Made everything seem more legit. The bastard didn’t even bat an eyelash when he itted he killed his own squeeze. Of course, the metal fucker didn’t have a lash to bat in the first place. August went on to explain the deals that he had made with most of the other High Servants. Pixel and Bit, if they survived the wrath of Eliza Strange, remained duped and out of the loop. Prince’s devout bodyguards could never have been bought. Much easier to leave them in the dark. Leave them unawares. To masquerade as Prince and pull their puppet strings. To shroud their electric vision in outright lies and deceit. The others, however, were easier to win over. Quite simple to sway. Prince, as is widely known but hush-hushed, was a right nut job. A crazy wacko fuck. And with a crown on his head and a throne for his ass, he took advantage of his position. He was a real hard bastard. A mean old royal cunt. August’s bold proposal to usurp the throne, to upstart and to rise the regal ascension, to kill the king and assume his place... it hardly broached a discussion. Hardly raised an argument. No sooner than it was made known that it could be done... that they could get away with it... then all of those involved were more or less obliged to see it happen. Determined to make it so. “You see,” August explained. “It wasn’t a hard sale. No one was eager to continue to kiss Prince’s ass, all the while as he kicked theirs. All they needed was someone to come out and say it. Let’s kill the bastard. Had I known it was this easy to take over the galaxy I would have done so ages ago.” “So now those sorry suckers kiss your ass?” Nova asked. “Is that the way of it? All the while as you fuck theirs? Is that the trade-off? What makes you so bloody enticing? Why crown you king?” “Me?” He gestured innocence. “Come now, Nova. Surely you know well your own brother’s winning personality.” He flashed a smile. That reflective glint of

chrome. “I’m the lov-able rogue. Everyone’s friend.” And here I sensed he would have winked to accompany his smile. Except he had no lids, no lashes to do so. Instead, a small, concealed tube leaked saline to moisten his eye. It caught the light. Gave off the appropriate twinkle. “But let’s be frank,” he leveled. “I may be a likable guy. I may be easy to work with. I may be the best boss you’ve ever had. Hell, I might even prove a good friend, a better lover. But what it boils down to... what really made the whole plan salvageable. what proved, in the end, the winning ticket to achieve this royal heist, this whole song and dance... what it was really all about… the money, baby. Moolah. Cash. Galactic Standard.” He rubbed two metal fingers together. “I dish out more than Prince. I treat you better and I pay you better. And why the fuck not, I ask? I’ve got Prince’s own fortune at my disposal. When I claimed his identity I so too claimed his crown, his privileges, his dolla-dollabills y’all.” He was proud of the fact. Pleased with himself. I guess I can’t blame him. It would be pretty swank to be the richest man that ever lived. “I give the stuff out like it grows on trees. And not the measly scrub forests of Agave Prime. I’m talking thick jungle foliage. I’m talking Nectari rain forest. I can spend and spend and spend some more. It’ll never run out.” He spread his hands to signify abundance. “I heard you lost Neon Dreams. Burnt to a crisp. Shame, but don’t worry, sis. I’ll have a new one built. Neon Nightmare. It’ll be the dread of every racer. The fastest steed that ever spun round the track.” He posed like some comic book hero. “The coffers are deep, my friends. I ain’t living by my paycheck. Ain’t jotting down my spendings in the ledger. I’m not counting bloody pennies.” He didn’t pause for breath. I suppose he didn’t need to. No lungs to fill. “Money, man...” he concluded. “Drops in an ocean. Mere drops in a gal-axy of oceans.” “So that’s what this is all about?” Nova wasn’t impressed. “You turned yourself into a freak... what... for money?” “Well, yes, in fact.” He unabashedly itted. “Yes, it is about money. Because what is money?” He asked her. “What is money, really?” Something I don’t got. “It’s power,” he answered. “It translates the same. To have one is to have the other. And power, sweet Nova, is, absolutely, what it’s all about.”

The way he said it. His dramatic tone and theatrical ges-tures. The silence that followed. That long, awkward pause… what did the guy want? Applause? Nova must have thought something similar. “So you want a cookie?” She asked, all mockery. “Money. Power. Big fucking whoop. August, you’ve got a metal clown body, man. You look like sci-fi got sick and took a shit. I’ll keep my layman’s salary and keep my dignity. I’ll look in the mirror and not face revulsion, thanks.” August shook his cumbersome, metallic head. “Are looks so very important to you? Are you really that vain?” “I once dated a guy with a comb-over. You’ll . Bruce. I’m pretty loose where looks are concerned. Pretty for-giving. But you, mate. You’re something of a special kind of ugly. And a king-sized hypocrite. Money this. Power that. And you call me vain.” His patience ran dry. So too, it would seem, his left eye. Saline solution oozed from a hidden aperture from below a metal brow. That took care of the eye. Not so the patience. Of that, August was fresh out. “So what if I am ugly? For I am strong. Infinite. Forever. I will rule over you, your children, your chil-dren’s children, and that will be how things start. “So I am a creature of vanity. What of it? They were vain pursuits, after all, that had me crawling from out of the filth of the slums, ascending from back-alley puddles of piss to the elevated seat of the galactic throne. Vanity, I’d say, has served me well. “So I am guilty of hypocrisy. That only proves I am still human. A man with a soul beneath this hard case shell. And if someone has issue with me? Has a beef with said hypocrisy? Then I exert my prerogative, my station, my power. I ignore or refute or punish or forgive, I delete from existence what irksome fly lands upon the edge of my plate. For the galaxy is my meal to consume. And as its overlord, I will do as I fucking well please.” Nova shook her head. Displayed her disgust. “So we’ve covered vanity, hypocrisy, the fact that you’re ugly as shit. Did we miss megalomaniac? Because fuck, August, you flat-out embody the trait. Are you really my brother beneath that scrap heap?”

August sighed, a despondent electric hum of commingled high and low. Autotune kicked in. Made him seem less human, more robotic. I didn’t blame Nova for doubting the presence of her brother. For seeing him, not just because of his external look, as someone completely changed. “I had wished to persuade you to my cause,” he told Nova. “I have everything I could possibly want but you.” His look then changed. A dark shadow of malevolence cast over him in a rather sinister way. “Of course,” he added slyly, even sleazy. “I have experienced the enjoyment of your body before. I guess at this stage it would be nothing new.” Nova’s brow knit. She was perplexed and angry. You could tell, she hadn’t a fucking clue what August was on about. “What the hell do you mean? You’ve enjoyed nothing of my body, except the hugs and beatings I gave you in equal mea-sure... back when we were kids.” “Hugs and beatings are good,” he said. “But that’s not what I’m talking about, sweet sis.” “Well, what in the fuck are you talking about?” She de-manded. “And none of that roundabout poetic soliloquy bull-shit. None of that diabolical mastermind long-winded bull-ocks. Just plain out with it, man. We came to kill you but you wouldn’t die. Doesn’t mean we want to stand around all day and fucking chat.” So he gave it to her. “I fucked you.” Nice and simple. “What?” “I fucked you,” he repeated. “Fucked you many times over.” “You better mean that figuratively,” she said. “Or what?” August challenged. “You said so yourself. You can’t kill me. So what are you going to do if I tell you I fucked you. Fucked you good. That I had my way with you over and over and over again. Nothing figurative about it, sweet sister. I pounded you good. I spent myself, relieved myself, gave my-self all to you. I literally fucked you. Front and back. Top to bottom. It was the time of my life, I must confess.” Nova was aghast. “Lies.”

“Not so, my love.” And August went on to explain in detail. He recalled that same night that Nova had once recalled to me. The night she and August were having a drink. Having a drink and having a laugh. Nova got the itch to party. She went out and went crazy. Coke and funsies and dancing and fucking strangers. August had gone all science nerd and stayed home. It was the same night that he developed the dream modulator, that absurd and freaky dream machine. It was the same night he installed Morpheus into Nova’s brain. “You had let some strange man come home with you,” he narrated. “Let him fuck you. Treat you rough. He had raped you. Beat you. You were too strung out to care. Too drugged up to noticed. You were bleeding down your thighs. Bruises already showing on your face where he had hit you. On your arms where he had grabbed you, pulled you, dragged you. On your breasts where he had needlessly manhandled you. Teeth marks where he had bitten you, savaged you. “I left that man in worse shape than he had left you. Maybe not that same evening, but I slipped a tracking device on the inner fold of his wallet. Days later I raped him harder and longer than he probably thought was possible. I’ve got a knack for pinpointing human tolerances. It’s a gift. So I gave him all that he could take without leaving him dead. I myself felt half-dead after I gave that man his due. It’s tiring work fucking others to the brink of sanity. “I didn’t have that same experience with you, dear sister,” he assured and smiled. “After all, you were out cold. You were like a corpse. And you very well may have been one in more than mere likeness if I hadn’t applied the anesthetic just right. All things considered, it is by far the most life-threatening action I took with your body that evening, giving you the gas. What, with the narcotics and party drugs in your system, all the booze and adrenaline in mine. But I know my stuff. And I kept you under. I kept you under, my darling sister, for days.” Nova remained quiet. Frozen. She appeared to be holding her breath. She was horror-struck and appalled. She listened on in utter dread as August rambled on. “The first time I raped you was when I penetrated your mind, surgically bore into your brain. True, this was not sexual intercourse, but it was forceful entry into your physical body without any word of consent. I don’t think of it as a violation, however. I think of it as a gesture of love. A gracious gift. I gave you my art. I gave you your dreams. I made magic with your mind so your mind could make magic. It is a privi-lege that borders on superpower. It is an honour

to be host to my creation. To be one with Morpheus.” Nova reached behind her ear. Parted her hair. Found that burrowing jack. Fingered it and frowned. She had never come entirely to grips with the device. Never accepted it fully. Now she downright despised the thing. Felt nauseous that it was even there. “More rape was to follow,” August continued. “And here, I confess, I am guilty of your classic, run-of-the-mill, non-con-sensual, sexual intercourse type of rape. For as you laid there, Nova, a drugged up, helpless sleeping beauty... as you laid there naked and covered in sweat, bruised and damaged... even as I peeled back the latex gloves coated in the blood of your brains from your opened skull that I had only just then stapled shut... even then, looking down upon your vulnerable gorgeous form... even then, knowing you were my twin sis-ter—no... because you were my twin sister—even then, I felt myself getting hard.” Nova vomited. I swallowed from a dry throat. And Au- gust plowed onward, mercilessly with his narration. “Now I knew you had been misused, Nova. Knew that that man had been harsh with you. That your body would complain when you woke. That you would feel signs of sexual strain and misadventure. And so too, I knew that the blame would never be pinned on me. So...” and the sadist bastard smiled. “So I fucked you. Fucked and fucked and fucked some more. There were times you moaned and wiggled and writhed. I liked these times the best. But I always had the gas at the ready. The anesthetic. I kept you under, two nights and a day. Jeesh, I must have fucked you twenty, thirty times.” There was a long silence that followed. Nothing but the sound of high wind upon the glass dome from without. The area we stood smelled of vomit and vampyre blood. It was safe to call that moment the rock-bottom event of our tale. “I have always fancied you, sister,” August said at last. “Fucking you was the closest I’ve come to fucking myself. Be-yond the boring tedium of a self-service wank, that is.” And Nova went ape shit. “SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP!!! Shut the FUCK up!!!” She ran across the room at August and pounded her firsts in a torrent against his metal bulk. “Fuck you! Shut up! Fuck you! SHUT UP!!!” With each successive slam of her fists, she left a stamp of blood upon his megaplastic frame. He grabbed her by the wrists, not so much to stop her from doing harm to him, but

to stop her from continuing to harm herself. August pulled her inward. Pulled her close. He looked down at her as affectionately as his grotesque, lidless eyes could enable him to express. He held her somewhere between how a mother would hold her infant child and a lover would hold his other half. Cloying, he tenderly spoke in that creepy high-low vocal pairing. “Come, Nova.” All seduction and des-perate love. “Come, sweet sister. I shall make you synthetic, eternal, a robo goddess. Take up my metal hand, bind your circuits with mine own. me, my love. Become the Queen of the galaxy. My forever lover, and forever in secret, my sister by birth, my twin.” Was that his proposal? The man was beyond mad. He had but to consider the situation, never mind look upon Nova, to know she hated him now more than she had ever once hated Prince. Any love or affection that may have been reserved for August Bright was a crumpled memory, a discarded, soiled thing, a thoroughly shat upon echo of life that once was but will never be again. “Let me go,” she said, calm and simple. And he did. He let her go. Nova was a shell of a woman. All stone and ice. Revulsion and rage and sorrow all swirled within her, too intense to come out in emotion. It would come later, doubtless, but for now, she was mute. Dead on the inside. Hardened and empty. Numb. She walked over my way, ed me by. Walked to the elevator shaft and didn’t even look back behind her, to me or to August. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” she said. So we did. We got the fuck out of there. If ever there was an awkward elevator ride shared between two people, this, my friends, was fucking it. We didn’t speak. We didn’t move. We stared out at the view, blind to its beauty. Ten, twenty, thirty fucking minutes? I don’t goddamned know. It may as well have been eternity. Forever and a day... we had suffered the biggest head fuck of our godforsaken lives.

THE BIG BANG

We were back in the Arachnid. Back up in space. Back up in the black. In orbit around Agave Prime. We had nothing to do. Nothing, except brood. And Nova sure was brooding. Brooding real hard. Nothing could help it. No Pee Vee Dubs. No Jurassic Park. All her favourites, they did nothing to cheer. Without our former vampyre captain the “no-stim” rule on board had been lifted. The Husk was no longer a narcotic-free zone. But even the notion of a few funsies down the hatch, a few Neon Tertras down the gully swimming all merry in the bloodstream… none of that shit appealed. Nova was down and out. And who could blame her? I mean, let’s face it, man… she got a serious dose of some major dark shit. A full platter of head-fuck. A three-course helping of traumatic with a side of violation. Her own twin brother…. over and over and over again… Let’s not go there just yet. Hell, let’s never go there again. We learned the grim facts, now let’s stash them away. Let them gather some dust. Let’s bury that shit and plant a tree or something. Let’s do something wholesome. Let’s do anything. But let’s not go there. So I guess it was back to Earth. Back to ol’ Troub. I didn’t relish the idea of trekking back home, more so still with our adventure all gone to fuck. But I guess anywhere is better than hanging around this close to August. So we’d do the old jump. Skip and hop across the star-studded void. Leapfrog a galaxy or two and head back home. But first… we slept. Nova had been dreaming and redreaming. Milking Mor-pheus dry. Loading up her three capsules with Z-vision and downing them the moment they were ready. She sought to escape the wakeful world, living in a constant dream state. Of course, that only really works if your dreams were any better than reality. And

from the screams and whimpering I heard through the walls, I warrant Nova was having some pretty troubled dreams. But she wanted one more night. One more cycle of sleep. One more visit to the dream world. So we remained in orbit. One more . In the morning it will have marked a week. And man, let me tell you… that was sure as hell one shit week.

But the morning brought a change of mood. Something was different. Something had improved. “Let me see your gun,” Nova Asked. “Ahhh…” I mumbled reluctance. “Suicide is not the an-swer.” “Fuck off, Zap.” That’s good. She had that old familiar spunk. “Give it here,” she demanded, stretched out an open hand. “Big Blue.” “O-kay.” So I handed her my piece. “I had a dream,” she told me. “I’ll be back.” And she walked away. Right… that made a whole lot of no-fucking-sense. But I was happy to see Nova back to a semblance of her former self. Brazen and peppy. Rude, but cool. So I left it alone. Left it alone and waited. I didn’t need to wait long. “Here,” she came back and offered me my gun. I took it. Looked it over. Same old Big Blue. I shrugged and slotted it between tro line and ass cheek. “Let’s go,” she said. “Sure thing,” I didn’t argue. “Back to Earth…” I mused. “Nah,” she said all casual.

“Nah?” I asked. “Back down to Agave Prime,” she told me. “Back down to August. I got something for him I know he’ll be dying to re-ceive.” Are you out of your fucking mind? I nearly said it. Are you out of your goddamned gourde? Nearly shouted it. But some-thing about it all. About Nova. The way she was acting. I left it alone. I shook my head and sighed and smiled. “Let’s go,” I agreed. Maybe I was the one out of his mind.

We didn’t speak as Ladybird took us back down. I didn’t even whimper, Nova didn’t even cringe, as we endured the tummy-fuck plunge. Back at the Ivory Spire, I saw something I had been too distracted to notice on our way out. Pixel and Bit. Pixel was in pieces. Bit was in… bits. No sign of Eliza. I guess she must have come out on top. Where she was now, perhaps only she could say. I, for one, couldn’t care less. “When we encounter August, don’t waste any time,” Nova instructed as we headed up the long ascent to the top of the tower. “Just aim true,” she said. “And shoot.” Doesn’t she how that all went down? I won-dered and made an attempt to protest. “Nova,” I argued, “Big Blue is useless against megaplastic. Useless against that mega-asshole. It won’t even make a dent in his -” “Just do it,” she said. Her words had the weight of finality. So I let them be final.

The elevator doors opened inward and we stepped on through. Prince was standing there. Just as we had left him. Dead centre in the room. Like he hadn’t moved an inch. It had been an entire week… surely he must have moved? I guess I couldn’t care either way. And besides, I’d never find out. He raised his sunken head and his eyes lit up, twinkling with saline and joy. He

smiled that godawful smile. That pred-atory glimmer of chrome. “Nova, my love,” his happiness was evident in his compu-terized voice, that high-low, multitone timbre. He looked to me also. “And your little friend.” Always fucking little! “To what do I owe this pleasure?” And I did as I had been instructed. I took out Big Blue. I aimed her true. “The pleasure is all mine, you sick, metal motherfucker.” I pulled the trigger. BANG! And goddamn, what a bang! Something was different. That wasn’t no ordinary Colt .45. The kickback was like a her-culean fuck-thrust. It threw me bloody backward. A good, fair toss. And when I got back up on my hands and knees… when I looked up to see what good, if any, this desperate charade had amounted to… what damage, precious little, had been dealt to August…. what harm, if even possible, had been distributed to the synthetic, impervious, eternal lord… the dreaded forever king… when I saw exactly what in the hell had just gone down… my eyes near popped out of my fucking head. Dead center in August’s chest, straight through... a hole the size of a hula hoop. A fucking hula hoop. Like, his whole chest... gone. Blown clean away. You’d think it had been hit point blank with a cannonball. But by a Colt .45? From across the room? Bullet on impact with reinforced megaplastic? No way. But seriously. Way. I looked at Big Blue, barrel smoking neon hues of yellow, pink, and green. Its enameled paint job had gone feral. Glow-in-the-dark raver brilliance. Radioactive. The brightest, most brilliant electric blue. It had gone completely astro on me. That piece was on steroids. It was supersonic. Amped up and pulsing, doused and lubed in fresh-squeezed Juice. And it had killed August Bright. Killed the bastard good and dead. He clutched with clumsy metal fingers at the edges of his tremendous wound, that immense diameter of unobstructed space. All along its gaping borders the metal and synthetic workings within eroded and melted away. Pieces of him came apart in chunks and fell to the floor in splashes of liquid neon. August’s

entire artificial body fizzed and foamed down into nothingness like the suds of a freshly poured pint of beer. Working outwards from that prodigious aperture, that astro-nomical cavity, that biblical hollow, a severe and fast-moving decay, rife and potent. A breakdown of parts and components. A deletion of stuff. August Bright Dematerialized. Defrag-mented. He disappeared before our very eyes. Only moments ago he stood fearless and proud, had boasted the most powerful, endurable, impervious bipedal rig in the galaxy. Now? Little more than a smoking puddle of toxic neon piss. August’s essence steamed and evaporated. His soul left a bitter acidity in the air. A tribute to his unsavoury mem-ory. And then he was gone. All that remained were two baby-blue eyes, detached and afloat upon the surface of that synthetic gore. They stared upward, retained expression, accusing and shocked. A last remnant of biological proof that that thing had once been a human being. Had, in fact, been August. Had been Nova’s own twin. On her way out to the elevator, she stepped on them casually, a sick squish. I averted my eyes. The sound had paint-ed a picture vivid enough. Her exit was unemotional. Real simple. Perhaps a last “fuck you” in answer to her brother’s over-the-top grand thea-trics. Same as before, a bit of deja vu, “let’s get the fuck out of here.” And we did. Without a second thought. Though the elevator ride was markedly unique. Notably less awkward. My curiosity was bubbling, boiling over the rim of the pot. I had to ask. “Big Blue...” It’s all I needed to say. And Nova hopped to it. Explained it all. She told me that a special bullet had been used to kill August. Something blessed or cursed or prayed over while marinaded in sacrificial virgin’s blood. But that smelled of horseshit to me. So I called her out on it. And then she gave it to me straight. I found out she had a little bit of her brother’s genius. A touch of science wiz in her. She was someone who spoke machine. Who had a mechanical mind. There was a special bullet, after all. But it wasn’t really a bullet. It had in fact been a dream capsule, Nova told me. She had loaded one of her nightscape visions into Big Blue. Fed my piece one of her dreams. Jammed it into the

cylinder, front of the queue. Morpheus’ raw device, removed from and independent of Neon Dreams, had been worked precisely so, a near-perfect fit, into the barrel and muzzle of my gun. She showed me. I had to look twice. “Oh, yeah...” I saw it. The marriage between dream modulator and revolver was seamless. The two widths and lengths microscopic in their discrepancies. Big Blue had been augmented with deft mechanical tempering. Undergone strength performing surgery. Had been pimped up to upchuck neon flavoured nightmares. And it had done just that. Did that shit in style. I wondered what vision had enough oomph to kill the Eternal Lord, the big bad antagonist, the metallic asshole. “What was the dream?” I had to ask. “What was it, exactly, I shot from my gun?” And Nova revealed to me the contents of the capsule, that “special bullet,” the king killer projectile. It contained a dream of me killing August with Big Blue. In essence, a dream made real by the use of the dream itself. It gave me a bit of a head fuck. Going out on a limb, Nova made the attempt to make that dream a prophesied reality. She worked her mechanical mis-chief on my Colt .45. Did her thing precise. Did it to a T. The rest would depend on the magic she suspected all along was within Morpheus’ design. Her hunch was well-founded. Voo-doo mathematics and astro enchantments and who the fuck knows whatever else. Something had been applied in Mor-pheus’ making. Supernatural and makes-nosense. Paranor-mal, this. Miraculous, that. The science, in truth, is as weird and what-the-hell to me as any of the rest. But I’ll tell you what I can say with a backing of authority from firsthand experience... what I’m confident is irrefutable fact... science and magic... those two ingredients together... they bake one hell of a fuck storm cake. And plenty of slices to spare.

Back on the Arachnid Husk, we depended on Cindy to pilot us home. With Drayke dead and left behind, we had no one else to do the driving. No one else with the know-how. I re-flected with relief my insistence to the Gossip Gal into the ship’s system mainframe. Cindy managed the Husk as well as she

prepared meals. No adequacy spared. She calculat-ed the jump and got us back into Earth orbit without any dramas, except, that is, the odd rerun of The Night’s of Our Lives I had watched on the way. At the Troubadour spaceport, back on Terra Firma, Nova and I went our separate ways. We hailed two different cabs. She checked that I had the spare key to the flat and she told me not to wait up. That she’d be back late. Then, from out the window as the cab carried her in a direction further away from the city, she shouted out loud, “Take care of yourself, Zap.” I thought that odd, but not enough to think twice about it. My own cab carried me home. Back to that vamp neighborhood with the dire-looking high-rise. Back to crash at Nova’s pad. That night she didn’t come home. Or the next. Or the next.… I sat and waited. Whiled away the hours. The days. The television was as good as useless; there was nothing on but headlines about the mysterious murder of the beloved Nights of Our Lives vamp superstar, Drayke Silverstem. It made me smile. Made me laugh out loud. Knowing that the loss of a soap star hurt the world more than the loss of its ruler. I read from the bottom corner of the screen below a full-sized still of the handsome vampyre, “BREAKING NEWS: Prince mysteriously slain.” I raised my bevvy in memory of Drayke. I raised it, too, in good riddance to Prince. I had Cindy make me a meal and we decided to watch a flick, wait for Nova to come home. “How about When Harry Met Sally?” Cindy asked in a hopeful tone. I had seen it a million times. Seen it way too many times too recently. I considered... “Why the hell not?” I gave in and shrugged, dug into my homecooked meal. “Hit it, Cinders.” And the Gossip Gal pressed play. I took a look around. Slobbing in those flash digs that I had seemingly inherited. I could live like this for a while, I thought. Until I got bored...

* * *

Two weeks later Nova had yet to come home. It was then that I realized I may never see her again. But sometimes I go people-watching in Paladin Square. Best place for it in Trouba-dour. I sit under the tall wax palms and order a drink. I sip at a pisco sour and scan the crowd for a girl. A girl all dressed in yellow. A girl that shines brighter than the rest. A girl who looks like a boy.

ABOUT ATMOSPHERE PRESS

Atmosphere Press is an independent, full-service publisher for excellent books in all genres and for all audiences. Learn more about what we do at atmospherepress.com.

We encourage you to check out some of Atmosphere’s latest releases, which are available at Amazon.com and via order from your local bookstore:

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Melancholy Vision: A Revolution Series Novel, by L.C. Hamilton

The Recoleta Stories, by Bryon Esmond Butler

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The Weed Lady, a novel by Shea R. Embry

A Book of Life, a novel by David Ellis

It Was Called a Home, a novel by Brian Nisun

Grace, a novel by Nancy Allen

Shifted, a novel by KristaLyn A. Vetovich

Because the Sky is a Thousand Soft Hurts, stories by Elizabeth Kirschner

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James Callan grew up in Minnesota. He lives on the Kapiti Coast, New Zealand with his wife, Rachel, and son, Finn. Neon Dreams is his first novel.