The Queen Song

8) Scenes 19-20

Mike W McCoy

10/26/2019

Version 4.0

<>19<>  Fire for vengeance.

Sparse monochrome moonlight raced over the restrictive rectangular rooftop garden.  The glow only slightly suppressed the reddish-black shadows that oozed like pus off the perimeter’s curiously crescent cut stone wall.  From the far corner, a crisp and clean artificial green light lanced out, creating a probing visual of darker prison-bar like streaked shadows, which stressed the illicit actions of the XXL plus-sized late evening ringmaster, Don Bolanos.

The Mexican Mafia boss smirked triumphantly while stepping to the alter-shaped podium.  He pulled an oversized gold pocket watch out from his brightly colored clown pants, as the assembled 60-plus beautiful people continued to find seats amid the theater’s arrangement.  The Don then stubbed out his sweet smelling cigar, and tried not to look annoyed as the murmurs of conversations ceased.

“My friends, yes?”  He said with a greasy smile.

“My friends, and generous guests, your attention for a moment.”  The Merchandise of self-important people became quieter, and just a little nervous looking.

“Tonight’s show is about to start,” the fat man continued with a wave towards his most trusted flamboyantly garbed guard Dogs.  The trio in matching white Guayabera shirts, and exposed shoulder holsters, nodded back towards him. 

“Any minute now, yes?” he added, thrusting the watch away.  “I hope.”

A large 3D glass wall slowly rose from the floor behind him. 

A haggard young Arabian man, in a wrinkled, buttery-white tuxedo, was pushed forward by the largest security Dog.  His slicked back black hair was long for the man’s narrow skull and shoulders, but it did matched his wide, crooked bowtie.He clutched a thick laptop-style computer that had several curly colored cables dangling down to his dirty brown dress sandals. 

“Um, so now then?” he softly muttered towards Don Bolanos, but got no answer. 

“This will take a moment,” his defeated tone added while bending down to plug in.  Static electrical lines jumped across the giant 3D glass wall.  And as the nervous man continued to fumble with the tuning, he scanned the assembled crowd.

Closest to him, was Don Bolanos and the pair of burly mustached Mexican’s who had beaten and shoved him up the stairs.  Their eyes drilled into him like alley cats deciding how to divide a mouse.  The largest Dog remained only a stride away, seemingly content to ignore his actions.

Off to the right, a small scattering of minor celebs, and a sloppy dozen mix of female Furniture, continued getting comfortable as best they could along the edges and background. 

Separate from them, was a scary group of Chinese techno-gangsters, and a handful of deadly looking Asian women dressed in emphatically perfect outfits.  Amongst them was an older, scowling woman draped in red silk.  The Arabian thought briefly she might be triad, but the Chinese didn’t worry him like the other types who directly returned his gaze.

The worst was a dark-skinned odd-looking tall young man clothed as if going to a beach party.  His fox shaped face remained impassive as a Chinese man in a swampy-green suit prattled on insistently.  The youth’s dark eyes, however, appeared alert to every detail swirling around the rooftop theater.

Another person staring back was the ugliest of the bunch.  He sat in the back row, behind a tall muscular East African man.  His fancy dark suit and seated posture suggested professional training, but it was the man’s mutilated face that allowed the Arabian to remember the name.

“Special Agent Boris, oh great,” the Arabian mumbled.  He knew the man only by the rumors.  Rumors, he hoped were not true.

Don Bolanos turned towards the tenacious crowd, and nodded towards the mustached Mexican Dog.  Then big bruiser forcibly stood the Arabian man up, and brushed off imaginary dirt from his wrinkled tuxedo.

“This man is Mohammed Max,” the Don began after the crowd quieted.  “The film show tonight is all his handiwork.”

“I will allow him to explain,” the fat Mexican continued, placing the blame early, hedging his bet, like some old habit.  “Start now, yes?” 

Mohammed swiped at his obvious sweat.  “Thank you, Don Bolanos.”

“Get on with it kid,” the Dog muttered impatiently. 

“Ao, ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to witness was a commission that took me years to acquire.  This history you are about to see was patched together from several authentic sources. But this…” he paused, looking at the confused reactions of the audience.

“This is real.  This did happen aboard the late space vessel USM AURIGA.”

Those words got everyone’s attention, especially the man with the mutilated face.

“This is a Memory Engram from a Second Gen. Synthetic.  A robot designed by robots.  The Auton named Call.”  With the push of a key, the show began. 

Grainy low color images unfolded across the 16’ wide 3D glass wall.  The audio track started with the harsh breathing of a curled up shape on a metal floor.  It was vaguely female, barefoot and dressed in a sleeveless brown outfit the textured look of canvas.  Long slippery black hair was clumped about a slender neck and narrow shoulders, and from within this tangle, dark eyes hid behind half-closed lids.

A new anxious vibe began to slink molasses-quick across the Club Uzi rooftop.  The Synthetic robot’s memory replayed for the audience of dregs, dime store hoods, miscellaneous Merchandise, and demons.

On the 3D screen, Call, the recording Synthetic knelt down. 

From its perspective, it drew a thin silver blade, and waved the weapon over the now obvious older woman on the deck.  But the robot’s hand hesitated after folding back the clothes, exposing a long deep scar running between the breasts.

“Well,” the woman spoke sarcastically.  “You going to kill me or what?”

Call lunged back surprised, then responded calmly.  “There’s no point is there?  They’ve taken it out of you.  Where is it?  Is it on the ship?”

The woman with the surgical scar, who Jax has known only as Mother, replied with a smile in her voice.  “You mean my baby?”

“Ripley,” Boris hissed between ground teeth.  “My god, it is her.”

The 3D glass gave a view of being close enough to touch, and also tormented his smoldering fire for vengeance.  The act of seeing the object of his obsession, the clone identified as Experiment Number 8, burned hot.  Her visual resonated out from beyond the physical screen and over into a whole new level. 

Almost instantly Boris’s froze, and felt a surge of resolve, as the figure of the Firstborn stood. The wide-eyed Jax had reacted unconsciously, pulling mentally and physically way from the flock of female flesh at his side.  His Alien acuity had started to drift off into the Song’s pull, as if being stoned or shell shocked.

“Mother?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“My Queen?” Rook echoed, also rising up alongside Boris.

“You!” the black man added, and pointed with a growl towards Mohammed Max.  “What is this?”

The pair of cultist bodyguards, in faded scrubs, also started to advance, but the thickness of the mesmerized Merchandise seated around them, prevented much of any such forward movement.  Don Bolanos lunged towards his mustached security Dog. 

“Call the reserves,” he ordered, and shoved him towards the stairs.  “Do it now.” 

Underboss Chan Xais was mesmerized, and couldn’t stop watching the 3D screen.  The woman in the memory replay had confronted the Synthetic, and shoved her own hand down the robot’s knife.  Open mouthed and enthralled, Xais ignored the rustling movements around him. 

“Acid blood,” Mahn murmured in disbelief. “Just like Jax.” 

He pushed a Bird aside, and tried to drag Xais to his feet.

“You,” Mahn grunted at the nearest Snake.  “Get the boss away.”

Agent Yoshi had already used the gap of the crowd’s growing excitement to escape.  She had stepped sideways towards the roof’s edge, and thought her brother’s notion that this was some kind of mystical crap going down, felt more real.

Her right hand slid over the .45’s checkered grip and the other freed her vidfone.  The weight of both boosted her adrenalin. 

“Ninja Team Six come in.  Abort, damn it, abort.”

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 <>20<>  Club Uzi massacre. 

“Oh, crap on a stick.”  The phrase was grumbled low and frustrated. 

The special agent watched Rook surge forward towards the cowering Mohammed Max, and as the black man moved like an angry linebacker, Boris franticly searched the crowd for Agent Yoshi.

Underboss Xais grinned with exaggerated excitement as Call’s memory replay next showed a nearly all black walking Alien horror. 

The biped creature stood 7’ tall, and had a segmented tail nearly as long.  The arms and legs were thin and bone-like structures covered with oddly attached muscle arraignments.  Each limb ended with sharp appearing hooked claws and webbed digits.  A grouping of long dorsal spikes were centered below the creature’s head, which had no eyes.  The structure was shaped like a truncated banana with a sloping mouth, and a double set of fang-tipped jaws dripped a wet snot-like slime.

The female Furniture, and most of the mixed Merchandise, gasped in freight.  Still others cowered near the Snakes and horrified Birds.  The triad henchmen tried to form a ring, but they were slow and amped on the show themselves.

Jax stood facing the 3D glass wall.  The images from the Synthetic’s memory banks reached not just to him, but via the dream thin threads of Song’s connection, the visuals found Mother.

Club Uzi security finally reacted to the growing panic on the rooftop.  Nearly a 9 more Mexican Dogs emerged up the side stairs.  The biggest pair grabbed Don Bolanos, and tried to usher him to safety.

Amid all the yells of confusion, Boris established a clear line of sight with Jax the half-alien spawn.  A captivating connection was established in under a heartbeat.  A new vibe, an unconscious mental tingle, went down his spine shaking sideways the emotion of ‘Anger’.

Unexpectedly a new thundering audio dominated the Club Uzi rooftop soundtrack from above.  Buffeting winds from a helicopter cut in close, and several darkly dressed Ninjas repelled amid the thrashing foliage of the rooftop’s garden border. 

Yoshi looked up surprised.  She tried to wave them off, but it was too late.  From the open door of the hovering machine, a lone Ninja fired a grenade launcher. 

PHA-THUMB.  PHA-THUMB.  PHA-THUMB.

The metal eggs bounced across the concrete.  Their explosions were deafening.  The flash-stun grenades ripped nearly in unison, shattering the mood with panic.

Boris blinked hard, turning away as the 4th blast ruptured the giant 3D video wall into so much sharp edged rubble.  The momentary blindness let him only hear the yelps of pain as the Ninja fired suppressed bullets at Mexican guard Dog flesh.

Battling the bout of blurred vision, Boris lurched after the scrambling Mohammed Maxx.  His feet did a slip-and-slide on the fresh shattered glass, and the lost momentum allowed the Arabian thief to escape down the stairs.  Boris drew the big borrowed revolver, and tried to follow, but froze-up on the top step.

It was only a quick glimpse back, but Boris thought he saw Yoshi pushing an older triad henchman inside a protective-trio formation.  The group was moving across the cramped chaotic rooftop with a mission.  His sight was clear enough to realize that the pair of Ninjas on point, were prepared to dispatch with short-bladed slicing arcs or firsts of death.

“That must be her brother,” he mused.

The triad underboss was starting to hype-up and over-react.  His heart raced, and visions of the Firstborn’s acid blood brought ‘Fear’ to the rooftop. 

“No,” he cursed, and acted without thinking.

Xais nabbed the stylish red leather purse from his Vulture, and yanked out her stubby gold-plated machine pistol.  The older woman yelled back as he tried to work the arming bolt of the antique Micro Mac-10, a criminal’s room broom. 

“Shut and help me,” his excited fearful tone pleaded.  She reached for the weapon just as he cut loose with a trail of 10mm bullets.

PPPBRAA, PPPBRAA, PPPBRAA.

The uncontrolled rounds from the small gun chased shadows, gouged holes into stone benches, and buzzed thru empty air.  Only seconds passed before the short-clip of 20 rounds finally exhausted itself onto some poor Furniture’s firm flesh.

Almost instantly, the wounded white woman’s death scream became a starting signal.  Don Bolanos and the Mexican Dogs added their own lead streams to the piercing buzz across the black, red and green lighting of the roof.

BRAAPPTH, BRAAPPTH, BAMGHT, KRA-PHOW, KRA-PHOW.

Diving low, and scrambling from the chaotic seating pit, Boris focused on Jax once more.  Mother’s anger, amplified by dozens of cult believers, gushed into the Firstborn via the long distance dream-like link of her Song.  And thru him the raging emotions of betrayal, victimization, and fury influenced the mob of Hopeless on the street downstairs as well as the confused killers upstairs.

BRAAPPTH, BAMGHT, KRA-PHOW, CHRA-CHUK.

Boris shook the edge of the Song away, thrust up the big handgun, and aimed at a threatening Mexican Dog.  The 1st bullet missed wildly, but the 2nd drilled into jawbone, tongue, and skull, before cleaving out bloody streamers of gore.

Calmly scanning the rooftop battlefield, the mutilated man saw that the situation had collapsed into a chaotic close combat free-for-all.  Well-dressed guests, and accompanying Furniture, surged left and right, pushing and shoving for an exit. 

Yellow Hand henchmen huddled around the now frozen by shock underboss Xais.  He just stared at the dead women, realizing she was his 1st kill ever.  He appeared to ignore the screaming woman in red, as she yanked the weapon from his shaking hands.  The Snakes pulled their weapons out, and drew down on the Mexican security Dogs with a toll of single-shot volleys. 

CHRA-CHUK, CHA-THOM, BAMGHT, KRA-PHOW.

The mixed Merchandise had panicked, clogging the primary stairs, and the security Dogs shot in fear at everyone and no one.  Handguns blasted at shadows.  Bullets sped like wraiths, danced like fairies, and killed like sharks.

Both of Jax’s bald bodyguards tried to defend their master from the chaos.  They offered up their bodies in sacrifice to protect the Firstborn.

BRACCTH, CHA-THOM, BAMGHT, KRA-PHOW.

Rook attacked the big mustached Mexican Dog, who still was standing alongside Don Bolanos, with only his bare knuckles and teeth.  Just behind him, the red dressed Vulture savagely slashed out, and drove her hidden knife hilt-deep into Rook’s kidney.  The black man’s dying convulsions beat her back savagely, and sideswiped the forward momentum of the fleeing Don Bolanos.

Agent Yoshi continued to push her numbed brother forward towards the nearest stair, but she became distracted as another Mexican Dog lunged after Don Bolanos. 

Suddenly a random bullet, by another criminal’s weapon, trimmed her Ninja formation.  But before the leading man fell, she spotted Boris aim at the shooter.

BAMGHT, BAMGHT.

He looked over to her, with that crooked smile of his, and Yoshi could swear he was winking.  Thunder, gunshots, screams, and incoherent yells dominated the Soundtrack.  The remaining pair of Ninjas tried to drag Mahn towards the stairs. 

The Club Uzi rooftop reception had become a blood-bath, a massacre, but Boris still tried to swim thru the deep end and work towards Agent Yoshi. 

Underboss Xais was now surrounded by a moving phalanx of henchmen.  They traded slow, accurate headshots, with the few security still standing.  Behind them Mohammed Max and Don Bolanos both disappeared from view.

DRA-DHOM, BAMGHT, KRA-PHOW.

“Agent Yoshi!” Boris shouted when only a few steps distant.  “Your plan sucks.”

The scary woman laughed.  “You think?  It’s not my fault.  What you-” 

He started to laugh as well, but stopped when a bullet strike doubled her over. 

Confused, Boris saw the taller Ninja unhook something and release Mahn.  Then without hesitation, he grabbed Yoshi tight, and jumped over the roof’s edge. 

Disbelief crowded onto Boris’s mutilated face, for instead of falling to their doom together, they swung and dangled like a twisting yo-yo, 7 stories above the street’s asphalt.  The Ninja made an adjustment, and the special agent briefly saw the cable attached to the hovering helicopter.  A moment later, it left the mistakes behind.

“Oh, you’re leaving?” his frustrated tone called to the fading figures

Finding himself now sandwiched between a few of the more mobile and hysterical Merchandise, a wounded Ninja, and the still stunned Chinese older brother, Boris reluctantly grabbed Mahn’s suit and took Yoshi’s place.

“Come on, move it,” he grumbled at the techno-thug, pushing him forward.

“No,” Mahn said pointing.  “The stairs are a dead end.”

Boris took note, and saw the crush of Hopeless clogging up that escape route.

“Good call.” 

The dirty, raggedly-dressed, people were being drawn by the Song.  Unconsciously they shuffled towards the Firstborn, now standing near the bullet scarred podium with an amused grin on his face. 

Mahn turned his almost comical face of terror towards Boris, and silently pleaded for help.  Reacting before thinking, the Boris yanked Mahn back and away from the last ninja’s weakening grip, and took 2 steps.

KRA-POW, KRA-POW, BRAATT.

All the shooting stopped.  Hammers continued to click on empty chambers.

Frustrated, mumbled, Spanish curses cruised the edge of the massacre Soundtrack, and were quickly followed by short grunts of pain and death.  The Mexican security Dogs were almost all dead.  The mixed pretty people lay scattered about in bloody poses of desperation.  The Yellow Hand Birds had clutched at, or huddled near their companion Snakes, who stood with knives drawn and empty guns.

Boris and Mahn to moved towards the green light.  The strong color and twisted half-shadows still illuminated the blood-bath of bullets, bodies, and broken things.  The Hopeless tranced-out mob of continued to roll up onto the Club Uzi rooftop.  Their increasing numbers pushed and shoved both well-dressed men viscously until both collapsed at the Firstborn’s feet.

The battle sounds had become dying sounds, dead and near dead bodies posed everywhere, and every which way.  Stains of blood dangled and drained from the plant’s leaves onto the mix of glass dust covering the walking wounded.

Jax looked down at them both men with a grin, “We go to see Mother now.”

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