Space Opera (Space Opera 1)

“I doubt it.”

“The atmosphere of this planet is 11 percent serotonin, 4 percent melatonin, and 1 percent aerosolized cocaine. Might as well enjoy it.” The onyx creature clawed somewhere around its presumptive rib cage with those skeletal fingers and came up with two black cigarettes as long and skinny as emo jeans. The brand was printed

around its filter in silver: THE MENTHOL BIN. Oort took it with a rush of ozone-boosted gratitude more powerful than any orgasm he’d ever had. He laughed shakily. God, this planet was the worst. He awkwardly pantomimed checking his coat for a lighter, knowing full well he wouldn’t find one. The alien blinked slowly; the tip of Oort’s ciggy glowed hot green. They resumed looking out at the sea.

“Haven’t felt a thing,” Oort said gruffly, his knees still trembling.

“Air-conditioning. You’ll never beat the Klavaret for HVAC installation and repair. Otherwise, who would get any work done?”

“No name tag?”

“Nah, fuck that, if they don’t know me by now, I can’t be arsed. Social performance is not my scene. Besides, I respire through my skin. See?” The dark little cone-man stuck his cigarette against his chest. Sooty smoke rings puffed out through his forehead. “I can’t be having with any adhesives, I’ll choke. And they know it, too, they’re just selfish. Ah, but the young always are. Well. My name is Darkboy Zaraz.” Oort started to introduce himself, but Zaraz waved his stick-hand in the air. “Nah, it’s all black. I know who you are. I’m a fan.”

“Spacecrumpet?”

“What?”

“Ultraponce?”

“Who now?”

“Must be my seminal work for the West Cornwall Pasty Company that rocks your boat, then.”

“Nah, I don’t care about that, it’s all rubbish. You want to know my groove?”

“Definitely.”

“1998, Didsbury Church of England Primary School, Manchester, England. You were in the choir. Had a solo in the Christmas concert. You sang ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear’ while some third year backed you up on alto xylophone. Wasn’t the song. Wasn’t the production values. Damn sure wasn’t the xylo—that poor kid couldn’t find the note with a metal detector and two maps. It was the fear. You opened that primitive sunboy ape mouth, and out came this true-black midnight river of fear and need and disdain—’cause you hated that song, be honest, you’d have drowned it in the nearest toilet if you could. But all that was mixed down with this thumping oontz-oontz one million BPM oversampling of wanting to be good, wanting to be everything, because no way was my pitch-perfect baby gonna let some twee trashcarol get in between him and the love of the crowd. Look, I’m only Elakh. Fully mastered multitrack emotional slagheaps are what I am all about. Weirdest club track I ever heard, but that jam was well dark, son. Pure obsidian.” Darkboy Zaraz snapped his twiggy fingers in appreciation.

Oort blinked. “How could you possibly have heard that?”

“They broadcast the whole thing on Radio 4. Some charity drive. The Keshet picked it up when they were doing reconnaissance. Öö knows I collect rare bootlegs; he hooked me up right inky. I played it on repeat for a week—the girls thought I was mad. Threatened to Bin me themselves if I didn’t stop.”

“The girls?”

“My band.” Zaraz was starting to get a little manic with all the fresh air. “You know, we’re all bands here. Not gonna claim we’re the best of the best, but we been together forty years now. Call ourselves Once You Go Black. We’re your run-of-the-mill grimecore spectro-tangobilly combo. We play all the oldies. ‘The Dark at the End of the Tunnel,’ ‘When You Wish Upon a Falling Experimental FTL Engine Core,’ ‘Leave It Black’ . . . oh, come on, you must know ‘Leave It Black.’ I see a black door and I’m extremely satisfied with how it looks? I know you’re from a primitive planet, but I feel bad for you, Double O Ultraviolet. I’ll make you a mixtape. Anyway, we’ve been around since the invention of agriculture. You know DJ Lights Out? No? She used to be our stop-stop dancer, before she went solo. The bitch. We mostly play weddings, funerals, pubs, cruise ships, that sort of thing. Summers, we hit resorts up and down the Binary Belt. I do big dance numbers, any rapping or Gregorian chanting that needs doing, and rock the dark-matter didge. My flow is jet, ask anybody. Sagrada sends us to the Grand Prix just about every year even though we never win because we’re the interstellar equivalent of a bunch of adorable grandparents in clogs or lederhosen or boat hats, but I’m telling you we do it so damn sable, they don’t want anyone else. Somebody’s got to get up there in traditional costume and sing the songs of their people and remind these beat-junkies what’s coal.”

Oort could feel the translator fungus on his throat steaming with the effort of interpreting whatever the Elakh had actually said that came out as “clogs,” “lederhosen,” and “boat hats.” They were quiet for a while. Ultraviolet tried to blow smoke rings and failed endearingly. He never could get that right. His mother could do it, no problem. She’d always start grinning like a little girl for no reason so you knew she was gonna do her trick. Then she’d open her mouth and out would come two neat, perfect Os. Decibel had always assumed that Oort had named himself after the cloud, and he supposed he had, just not the one out beyond Pluto.

“I don’t know how you heard all that junk in my Christmas carol,” Oort said finally.

Darkboy Zaraz made a sound like feedback—the rare Elakh laugh. “Sorry, kid. On the big evolutionary board, human ears score somewhere between a retired roadie and a garden gnome. Even your dogs hear better than you, it’s bloody shameful. Sorry, sorry, I’m working on being more culturally sensitive. It’s a struggle, when your culture is so much better and older and more advanced than everyone else’s. I take an extension course. We have mantras and stuff. Always trying to better myself. So let’s try again. It’s not your fault the average Pomeranian has better ears than Mozart on a good day.” Zaraz rolled his eyes and recited his mantras: “I am not morally superior, more deserving of love and wealth, or more fun at parties just because they’re both deaf compared to me. You can choose your friends, you can choose your outfit, but you can’t choose the environmental conditions that led to the evolution of your specialized anatomy.” The Elakh shrugged. “Can’t see for shit on my planet. Anyone who can’t hear the childhood trauma of a Tasaklian porcutiger at a thousand yards is instant amuse-bouche.”

Oort couldn’t help feeling a bit bruised in the pride. “I have excellent hearing. I test off the charts, always have.”

“Aw,” Zaraz said, and patted Oort’s velvet-padded elbow. “Precious.”

Oort wanted to stand up for his side and proclaim the auditory virtues of his species, but the wind was just too soft and sweet and admixed with white-collar drugs. “I was scared, though. You were right. I begged the choirmaster to just let me play the piano like always, but my parents thought it would be good for my anxiety. I stood up there all by myself and everything smelled like poinsettias and middle-class values and everybody’s different brands of dryer sheets and I hated it. I never wanted to sing alone again, so I didn’t. Worked out all right for a while. I’ve never been scared since, except now. The song’s not done, Zaraz. Not even close. I can feel how good it might be in my chest but . . . well, you know, Dess and me . . . without Mira . . . we’re just Dess and Me. Not the Zeros. Just one and two.”

Darkboy Zaraz stubbed out his cigarette on a marble statue of some war hero rosebush. “Listen, Double O. I like you. You’re in the black with me. Been that way since I first heard little baby-you singing about angels bending near Earth and jamming on golden harps to bring on the end of the history and the beginning of a new era. Where I come from, we call that foreshadowing, my man. You’re the real char, I can tell. And I’m feeling right swarthy at the moment, with all this psychedelic breathing I’m doing. I’m going to make you a midnight offer, one I’ve never made to anybody before, and I’ve seen a lot of weird, shitty, fabulous species come across the Grand Prix stage.”

Oort’s bloodstream was practically carbonated with the narcotic sea breeze by then. His scalp felt like it had been rubbed all over with velvet valentines and the kind of perfume that came in bottles with squeeze bulbs. “Oh? What’s that?”

The Elakh lifted his enormous eyes to meet Oort’s. His lashes were so long, they were like burlesque curtains. It was ridiculous. How could he see with those things on? Oort started to giggle, but he stopped when Darkboy Zaraz laid it all out.

“Let me save you.”

“God, really? That would be . . . amazing. Shit, I’m so relieved, I can’t even tell you. This has all just been too much. You won’t regret it. You’ll see, humanity is all right, really, we’ve had a few rough spots but we usually sort of . . . lean in the right direction.”