Skyglass: Chapter 12

PHOENIX

Smoke untangled from my mouth. The trails of garbage, food (pre- and post-digestion), and discarded undergarments from the previous night’s party were now gone, nothing more than drifts of ash incinerated by my fire. I brushed cinders from my palms.

“All clean,” I said, with the kind of satisfaction that only comes from doing something you’re really good at.

I joined everyone at the dining table on the bridge, for one last meal on earth–everyone, that was, except Marko and Moss. I hadn’t seen them since before the goat slaughter, but according to Devin (who’d delivered them a breakfast of buttery griddle cakes smeared with clotted cream, chopped apples, honey, and amputated Peep-limbs), they were snuggled up together in the ship’s master bedroom.

Amazingly, Sable seemed okay with the fact that her sleeping quarters were still besieged by her drummer and his consort. Once most of breakfast had been demolished, she jaunted away toward the Pixilikker’s helm with a mug of nut-brew, yelling at everyone to get ready for liftoff.

Zinn brushed past me as everyone dispersed, his hand lingering at the junction between my collarbone and shoulder. It felt dirty somehow, maybe because of the slight purring tension in his palm, and I shivered with glee and vice.

“Want to go back to the stardeck?” he asked.

“For more sex?”

“Sex during liftoff is perhaps the most thrilling thing you’ll ever experience as a human.”

So up we went, and up he went, as the Pixilikker broke through the forest’s canopy, which had fused above the ship during its long landlocked stasis. Murky Gut light, then ghost light, then sunlight swept in through the bioplast window above us, followed by the thin pall of atmospheric fringe and the solar-streaked dark of space.

Later, as the ship drifted through the vacuum, Zinn deactivated the room’s gravity. We floated together, all twined up near the window, and gazed at the distant moon and our destination that lay before it–the Midmoon-ExTOP, the extraterrestrial outpost where the Star-Dusted Ventriloquist was located.

From a distance, the ExTOP looked like a glass supernova. It was a shiny, geometric explosion of architecture–cubic apartments with latticed business complexes on its moonward side, and jagged, translucent party spheres leashed to the earthward docks by gossamer chains. At the crown of the ExTOP was the domed roof of the Ventriloquist, currently flashing polar white-and-blue party lights through the crystal formations encrusting its roof-panes.

“I have a question,” Zinn said, green eyes distant behind his swirling, green hair.

“Curiosity,” I drawled. “Everyone has it. Fire sprites, lumps of flesh–anyway, go on.”

“Indeed. So, my question: are we…we now? Together?”

I pursed my lips, musing. “Do you want to be?”

“Honestly? I’m neutral on the matter.”

“Good, sweetling, good,” I murmured. “I feel the same.” Fire wasn’t meant to be kept. “I say we play the game ’til we’re bored.”

He nodded, smiling a little now, gaze still far off, perhaps as he recalled one of his secret space adventures. I smiled, too, and pushed away from him, arching and twisting through the air.

I was happy to be off Earth, away from the heaviness of stone, to where sunlight was pure and sharp, and darkness was empty.

***

The first thing I did when we arrived at the Midmoon-ExTOP was find an insertionist. I was done with going comless–and anyway, what was the point, now that my father and I were to collide the next night? Hiding was pointless. And, since I was once again out and about as a popup, it seemed absurd to have nothing to make my Blowups with–especially since I still hadn’t started the Blowup for Skyglass’s show.

While Skyglass gathered their gear and prepared to move it to the Ventriloquist, I crossed the air tube that connected the Pixilikker to Midmoon. It was like walking down the length of a glassy worm. Outside the tube, I could see tiny petipods and sinuous drake-dinghies zipping around Sable’s ship, probably poppers and purists trying to get a peek at the band in all their travel-worn majesty. A few ’pods paced me as I waltzed down the translucent tube, toward Midmoon’s docks.

I felt an echo of creepy familiarity as I waited in the air lock, listening to the crowd loitering just outside the gauzy doors. The bioplast separating us was cloudy enough that I couldn’t make out their faces–only a rainbow mass of stirring pointillism. Were they waiting for me, or Skyglass, or both? I decided I didn’t care. In a day and a half they’d be popping us both, so what did it matter?

The air-lock door opened like a blooming flower and I stepped out, all grins and cheek-licking. I was glad–as I always was in these situations–for the extra salivary gland I’d had installed a few years earlier; without it, my tongue would have been as dry as a crackle-cricket’s cooch in just moments. I strolled across the docks through the throng, licking greetings and babbling as I swept beneath the elektro-chimes hanging from the vaulted ceiling, toward a glitzy network of lifts and stairways made of prism-bright bioplast.

A decent-sized chunk of the crowd remained as I shimmied my way past, but a long pageant of poppers unwound from the group and followed me–down a sapphire-planked, midair promenade to a cluster of shops that hung like a crystalline pit at the center of Midmoon. As we went along, the poppers plied me with questions, asking if I was planning on hosting any orgies or brainfloat parties. I just smiled and said, “We’ll see, sweetlings, we’ll see,” until I found a high-end insertionist, bought out the place for the day, and sat back while the com-embedder prepared her instruments.

After the insertionist injected my shiny new p-com through my skull and into my headmeat (just a little to the left of the old machine), I messaged Zinn. I asked him to scour Midmoon for any signs of my father, put out a couple of auto-hacks, and to pretty please invade the skulls of my poppers with a momentary burst of brainfuzz so I could make it to my suite at the Ventriloquist in peace. He complied (as I knew he would, because I promised him sex–oh, the hardship of it all!), which left me free to head back to my room for a day of marathon Blowup concocting.

Twenty-four hours ’til showtime, I mused. Just enough for me to build it from scratch. The procrastination had gone from thrilling to dangerous, which my muse greedily sucked up for fuel.

The rooms the Ventriloquist had set aside for us were small, but cozy; they were arranged around the perimeter of the venue, one level up from its entrance. I stood on my deck, with only bioplast separating me from the vacuum. I looked out at the dome that rose up from the Star-Dusted Ventriloquist, which would open and let in Devin and his coffin at the beginning of Skyglass’s show the following night. Below me was a pretty jumble of shiny-shelled gangplanks and stairways: some led to the venue, others steered away from it and toward the nearby restaurants and brain-fry clubs, while the rest snaked below, to the sparkle-spiked hub of boutiques where I’d gotten my new com.

I was ready to finally, finally start the Blowup, but called Moss before I could get down to business. I considered inviting him over, but figured it would be a waste of hospitality–knowing him, he was avoiding the crowds and would refuse to make the short trek between our rooms for fear of being waylaid by a horde of poppers.

He answered with surprising speed, so I got right to my point.

“I heard you screaming last night.”

He looked at me and then away from me, all shifty-like on my soul-painted wall. He was in a dim room that looked much like my own, although it was hard to tell with all the shadows. His hood was down, his headphones around his neck; he was practicing some stupidly complex pattern on his left kneecap with a pair of drumsticks.

He didn’t stop playing when he spoke. “I had a little trouble with the goats. I killed one. The blood got to me. Where were you?” He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Fucking Zinn.”

“Oh.” A pause, then, “Was it…good?”

“Oh, he was delicious. You should try him sometime.”

He grimaced, but instead of snarking back at me, he said, “I wanted to thank you. For the coms. I watched some of my dad’s vids. It wasn’t pleasant, but I’m glad I have them. So thanks.”

I squirmed at his gratitude–half delighted, half squeamish. I changed the subject. “How’s Marko?”

“Doing badly,” he admitted. “He’s terrified of heights and we’re in rotting space. In other words, he’s in his room with the curtains drawn, very drunk, blasting the sludgiest doom metal I’ve ever heard.” He sighed. “He said he’ll be sober for the show, though.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s not what I meant, Moss. I was asking about his cock. Is it big enough? Is he making you feel good? ’Cause that’s all sorts of important.”

“Oh. He’s…good.” The slightest of smiles twitched on his mouth, then he shook his head. “And I guess his cock’s big? I dunno–I mean, it looks…big? But I don’t know how it feels, um, inside or anything. We didn’t…”

I cackled. “You’re still a virgin, you poor, poor sweetling. And Marko! Poor him, too. Not that he’s a virgin. Oh no, he is most definitely and indubitably not.”

“We’re getting closer,” Moss muttered. “I mean, I want it–him, whatever. I’m just…nervous? Being close to someone physically always feels a little weird to me, you know?” He put his sticks aside and pressed a fist to his mouth, shaking his head a little.

I smirked. “I don’t.”

“It’s like…like sex isn’t something that’s actually supposed to happen. Or that something’s missing.” He sighed in frustration and quit talking.

“Ah,” I said. “You’re just not setting the mood. I can help with that. Now go away; I’ve got piss-tons of work to do. Just remember, when you two feel like it’s time for a little fuckery, be sure to check under your pillow. I’m gonna prepare a little surprise for you both.”

He looked suspicious as he leaned back against the wall. “Sex toys aren’t my thing, Phoenix.”

I rolled my eyes again. “I haven’t been de-brained, you underfed fool. It’ll incorporate music. It’ll incorporate Fallin.”

Something fiery kindled in his already flame-sweet eyes. “Oh,” he said. “Whatever, then.”

I smirked at him and disconnected the call. I was ready to pound out some seriously sexy mindfuckery for Moss’s special night, after which I would begin my most phantasmagorical and thrilling Blowup to date.

***

Dinner that night was an explosive affair, to say the least–Mister Quist of the Ventriloquist had reserved a whole restaurant for Skyglass and a few hundred of their lucky fans. The ceiling was made of the strongest, most delicate bioplast, so sheer it couldn’t be seen–which had Marko hyperventilating, one arm twined around Moss’s, his hand crushing the drummer’s so hard I wondered if I’d have to melt it down and reweld his poor bones.

I sat across from Moss, plying him with microgreens and honeyed nut-bits–which he was, thankfully, nibbling on–and filled Marko’s shaking glass when it got empty, which was often. Zinn sat on my left and ate minty-cold melon soup, while Devin on my right downed tumbler after tumbler of bubble-jacked bumblefruit, all the while drawing up plans for a massive food fight. Sable and Yunayuna were in the corner with an enormous chunk of pot-roasted gigagecko before them. At the moment, though, they were just sprinkling its juices over the blades of Sable’s knives, giving thanks to the gods of pointy steel for the opportunity to play and eat (for free) at such a classy joint.

A woman approached the table with a sly smile stretching her face, wearing a high-collared jacket made of gleaming blue feathers. “Greetings,” she said.

She was a crow. I could tell right away. “I was just wondering if I might ask a couple questions,” she cawed most annoyingly, “seeing as your big show’s tomorrow, and you’re all still quite mysterious.” With a cellophane flash, she pulled a box of black, orange, and purple Peeps from her jacket. Spooky Marsh-Hallow Edition: So Scary You’ll Peep!

“Oooh, special!” Devin peeped. “Yes, please. I’ll share if you do. What do you want to know?”

“Only everything,” she said with a beaky smile; she drew up a chair and offered him a bat caked in a sugary purple crust. “But first, the beginning–obviously.”

The singer grinned and munched on the Peep. “Oh, that’s easy. I heard Moss drumming in the Gut one day and followed my ears. He was cute, but wouldn’t fall for me no matter how many songs I wrote for him, so we compromised and made a band.”

The crow gave him another Peep and turned to Sable. “And when did you join up?”

The guitarist threw a slanted look at the woman. “You make it sound like I was drafted, when really, I forced my way in. Heard ’em playing in the Gut, so I turned up my stacks and blasted them with shredding ’til they finally told me I was one of them.”

“Is it true you killed your uncle to get ahold of that ship of yours?”

Sable snorted. “Ha. You really are gross, aren’t you? No, I didn’t kill my uncle–though sometimes I wish I had. I waited ’til he was dead, buried him and all his piss–except his knives, of course–then took off with Yunayuna to see the galaxy.”

“And you, Zinn? How did you become a part of Skyglass?” the crow asked.

My lover glanced up from his steaming tea. “Who, me? I’m just here for the sex.” He jabbed a finger at me and smiled over the rim of his mug.

The crow looked confused, but pleased. “That…didn’t answer my question, but brings to mind so many good ones, like: how long have you two been fucking? Is the sex good? Any chance of an orgy with the two of you?”

“Oh, the sex is just terrible,” I moaned. “His cock has these orange and mauve stripes all over it, and my nipples are blue–so we totally don’t match. Guess we were never meant to be.”

“Aw, so sad! I’ll have my editor send you a card and my contact info, Phoenix–just in case you’re looking for a little sexual commiseration.” Before I could tell her I wasn’t really into feathers, she turned to Moss and Marko. “So, how long have you two been married?”

Marko coughed out beer, spattering her face with liquid bread. “We’re not married,” he managed to choke out.

Her face brightened–crows loved a twisty story. “Well then,” she said, “what are you?”

“A support system,” I interjected, when Moss and Marko’s terrified silence had gone on for too long.

“Ah. That does make sense,” she said. “Has that been helpful for you, Moss? I know you have issues–speaking of which, on a scale of one to ten, how much would you say not eating has helped you deal with your parents’ gruesome and heartless double suicide?”

“Zero,” Moss said, and glanced down at the chocolate pie our waiter had just placed before him. He let go of Marko’s hand–which, I was proud to say, he’d held onto the whole time without a single slip in his grip. On the sun, things never stopped spilling into each other in constant, burning reinforcement; I was glad to see Moss had learned something from me.

“On a scale of one to ten,” Moss said to the crow, rising calmly from his seat, “how much would you like a slice of this pie?”

“It does look quite delicious!”

“Good,” Moss said, and plopped it facedown on her head. He glanced back at Marko, who looked shocked and more than a little nauseous, and said, “Let’s go.”

As they departed, I gave the crow a spiky grin and offered her my fork.

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