Dax Magraw, Peacekeeper Trombonist

by guywortheyauthor

"Get lost," said the massive, fuzzy bouncer. "Ya little alien spitball. Fshk!"

He (or maybe she) whapped the door to the nightclub shut. If I hadn't flinched and jerked my head backwards, the door would've broken my nose. "Hey!" I said. But I said it to a closed door. I huffed, readjusted my backpack, and shuffled in a circle to face the entertainment district. All the bright billboards and flashing signs made my eyes water.

My eyes would be watering more if the door had broken my nose just then. Fortune had granted me about an inch of grace, but I found my narrow escape to be ominous, and in keeping with recent gloominess at the Patrol green room. Downhill, that's where things were headed. Not long ago, we "alien spitballs" were universally adored. But the glam had lost its shine, apparently. I saw more signs of it every day.

I squinted past a sign for professional grooming (The City's Most Talented Tongues!) to try to spy if there was an alleyway, but I couldn't tell. To the left I trudged, with care because sometimes there were messes to avoid on the sidewalks.

Where does a cat go for fun? Right here. Downtown Ikth, 3rd savannah belt quadrant, on a world the Federation dubbed "nu Ophiuchi c 1." The natives call it Ar, and we aliens called it Catworld.

It was an insult to be called a spitball but perfectly accurate to be called an alien. I hail from Terra, and I'm a small hairless warm-blooded biped. The cats, or "Ksss," are also bipeds, but luxuriantly furry. I look upwards to meet the eyes of the shortest of Ksss adults, and they are powerful masses of bone and muscle. Fangs, claws, whiskers, gaudy jewelry, and potent perfumes complete the typical Ksss ensemble. Only Ksss afflicted with the mange wore clothes.

A Ksss staggered toward me out of the glare. He (or she – the two sexes look and sound the same) stank of wine and slug mucous. I dodged him with alacrity. If I tangled his legs and he fell on me and then he passed out, I'd be done for. I'd never see my buddies at the green room again.

That would be a pity. The new keyboardist from Alpha Centauri had started a 20thcentury club that had really brightened our off-duty hours. Ragtime, blues, and jazz fascinated me. But I wasn't off duty. Focus, Magraw, focus.

Past the drunk, I saw my alley and slipped into its darkness. The back door to the club should be back there, somewhere, amid smells of spoiled meat, stomach acid, and excrement. They couldn't keep Dax Magraw, trombonist, out of some shabby cat dive.

My foot slid in something slimy. I cringed, but I didn't look down. I didn't want to know. The cats of Ar managed somehow to be insufferably vain and yet disgustingly messy at the same time. For example, they had excellent indoor plumbing but only used it if the whim took them. Also, their enlightened and orderly planetary government contrasted with the near-anarchy that reigned in their cities. That's why the Patrol was here, to keep the peace.

And I? I was a Peacekeeper, solo certified. We had a reliable rumor that Silver Mowk and his gang planned to hit this drinking hole tonight. The dive I was just bounced out of, that is. I was here to stop him.

Now, don't get the idea that I'm brave or anything. The cats terrify me, and they can and will rip each other to bloody shreds. Once in a great while, one of us offworlders gets themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and ends up butchered. We are smaller and softer than the natives, and slower as well. But I do not intend to let it get that far. "Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent," said one of my kind long ago. I was armed with a trombone, and I was not afraid to use it.

I spotted the back door to the club.

With smooth, professional grace, I shrugged my trombone case off my shoulders. The seals hissed as I released them. The brass of my Yamaha horn gleamed, reflecting distorted versions of the scattered light bulbs that dimly lit the alleyway. I screwed the slide to the main tubing and bell and ran the slide from first position to seventh position a few times.

Too sticky. I dug around for my spray bottle and spritzed the slide with water. There. Smooth as buttered grease. I wore a body amplifier that would reinforce my sound output, but I didn't slap it on. My trusty Yamaha was loud enough all by itself.

I kicked the back door hard. Several times. That ought to get somebody's attention.

What should I play? A little Bach? What about Mozart? Nah, Bach should provide enough wattage for mere door-opening. I blew some warm air into my horn, then commencedAir On A G String. Long, mellow, soulful notes echoed in the alley and seeped through the back door of the club.

The door's little peep window slammed open.

I kept playing, tamping down a surge of triumph to concentrate on breath support. Long notes required big lungs.

Bolts slammed open, and the door swung wide, with the shadowy mass of a Kssslooming on the threshold. Never does a Ksss look more adorable than when under the influence of classical music. Their eyes open wide and their lenticular irises dilate. Their bewhiskered jowls droop and their furry ears rotate forward. The Ksss's peculiar susceptibility to musical pacification had been noted shortly after the Federation made contact when Ksssian envoys entered Terran elevators and refused to exit due to their fascination with the background music.

The origin of this musical mesmerization remains unknown. The cats themselves can scream but not sing, and the only technological items of theirs that might be called musical instruments are atonal percussion and metal rods that can be made to screech when bowed. Like Terrans, the cats form ensembles to play their cacophonic compositions, and seem to enjoy the results (though I, personally, would pay good money to be elsewhere during such performances).

At any rate, when I stopped playing, the cat in the doorway slurred, "That was nice, li'lfella. Keep going."

I polished my cup mouthpiece with a rag. "Actually, I'd like to speak with Big Ro. Please." And then temptation overcame me and I said in a rush, "And maybe a blue fizz."

"Sure, li'l Terran buddy. Come on in." The cat retreated into the club. I guessed female and saw she was a tabby, with orange-brown stripes and a tail that curled upward in a semicircle. Her perfumes tickled my nose, speaking an olfactory language beyond my ability to comprehend. She cast yellow-green eyes over her shoulder at me and continued, "Seen you around, a time or two. With the Patrol?"

"Yes, I'm a Peacekeeper." Crowd noise grew. We passed a kitchen doorway and traveled through a cloud of air scented of stew, scorpion spice, and marinade. Meat-loving Terrans rave about Ksss cuisine. I'm vegetarian, myself.

"You nakey mice are so ugly you're cute. And that music! Rrrrr." My guide parted a beaded curtain and ushered me through. The crowd noise crescendoed and the soft lighting revealed the main floor of the club, crowded with small tables and various arcade games. The tabby steered me left, up a (high, for me) step, and into a private booth.

And there she was. Big Ro, lounging on a recliner. Her white fur grew at least a foot long in places, and sea-foam eyes studiously ignored me. At least a dozen earrings marched down each ear, failing to disguise significant scarring. Another white scar angled across her pink nose. As her name implied, she bulked large for a Ksss, and two additional bruisers flanked her chair. Unlike boss lady, the bodyguards stared at me like X-ray machines.

"Lemur to see you, Big Ro," the tabby said. "Didn't catch its name. Wants a blue fizz."

Big Ro's scarred nose wrinkled in distaste. "Cheated your way in, eh, lemur? All right, Foss, get him a blue fizz." Foss the tabby whisked away, tail lashing. The term "lemur" referred to an Arrian lemur, a staple food source of the Ksss, about twenty pounds large and native to the inner climate belt, the desert. I don't see the resemblance, but it's universal among the cats to call Terrans lemurs.

As I and my Yamaha cooled it at the feet of the Queen, Big Ro deigned to turn her stare upon me. She leaned forward. "So? Spill. A Peacekeeper doesn't just show up to be social."

I cleared my throat and gave a polite bow. "Greetings. I'm Dax Magraw, Arrian Music Patrol, rank Solo Peacekeeper." That part was regulation. Must identify self. Big Ro was so non-impressed, she yawned. I got a glimpse of gleaming four-inch fangs.

Hastily, I continued, "We have good information that Silver Mowk is on his way over."

Big Ro sneered, showing fangs again. "And you're here to break up the fight?"

My back straightened. "Would prefer such to be unnecessary, ma'am."

Only the truth. Twenty years ago the Arrian Global Council requested Terra for a Musical Patrol to stem a planet wide tide of bloodshed. Our job was to defuse the worst of the flash points until education could shift cultural norms toward coexistence. That cultural shift still hadn't happened, and at the same time our technique of intervention grew less and less effective. Why, just last week, a clarinet duo assigned to a market riot had to call in reinforcements. The Patrol rushed in a whole chamber ensemble and hit the crowd hard with Pachelbel's Canon in D Major. That sort of firepower may have been overkill. The crowd melted to a puddle by the fourth measure.

That keyboardist I mentioned before, her name is Holly. She thinks the Music Patrol islike a germ invading a host. After a while, the host works out an immune response. I guess being called a lemur isn't completely insulting, but being labeled a germ sure is.

Holly's great. We were transcribing Nat King Cole songs at last rehearsal. So catchy.

But I digress. Big Ro sneered at me more and spat, "Why don't all you lemurs just go away? We don't want you." She emphasized her point by raising a forearm bigger than my thigh. The hand on the end extended its claws in a leisurely display of deadly prowess.

I gulped. Honestly, these giant cats intimidated me to pieces. The comfort of warm brass in my right hand calmed me. My trombone was ready. Any time.

As if my thought was some kind of cue, screams tore from Ksss throats near the front door. The raw vocalizations scraped my spine like a wood rasp. The room erupted in frenzied motion. Ro and her bodyguards tore past me at the speed of sound, buffeting me. I hunched protectively over my horn as battle lines formed in the middle of the club, inside a ring of spectators.

Amid the hubbub, I heard steely Ksss voices. "What do you want, Mowk?" said Ro.

I couldn't spot him past the row of hulking forms with battle-inflated fur, but I'd studied his dossier. A gray shorthair, Silver Mowk wore an eyepatch and had only three fingers on his right hand. His voice matched hers for resolute intensity. "Back off my territory, whitey. Keep your lackeys west of track seven. Clear enough? Or do we need to convince you more?"

I stepped down from Big Ro's booth and blew a warming gust of air down the bore of my Yamaha. My choices for tunes narrowed. I needed something potent and quick-acting. Brahms's Lullaby. Perfect.

Strolling toward the belligerent center of the room, I blew the melodious, familiar melody. Silkily, I added a slow vibrato on the long notes and stretched the tempo at the ends of the phrases. Anybody that thinks a trombone is obnoxious hasn't heard me play. I'm so smooth that pats of butter take notes when I croon a tune. The Ksss nearest me quieted, then the rest, like a wave of tranquility coasting without effort to the corners of the room. The ring of spectators parted for me, each fuzzy face wide-eyed and each set of jaws slack. The magic brought sudden calm to the gathering storm. I sauntered for Big Ro herself, her enormous bulk inflated to stupendous proportions by the expanded state of her long fur.

Her fur stayed erect and her hands splayed wide, a precursor to extending her claws. Her eyes were slits as she stared at me with evident malevolence. It stopped me in my tracks and I even warbled a note unintentionally. I had looked forward to seeing Big Ro turn into a cuddle cat. Instead, she lowered her head into bunched shoulder muscles and stepped in my direction.

How could she? How was it possible? This was Brahms.

It's a fine line between bravery and stupidity, but, bravely or stupidly, I held my ground. I poured my soul into a repeat of the famous melody as, step by ominous step, Big Ro approached.

I lost the gamble.

In mid-phrase, she ripped my trombone from my lips. The music died with a blat, and my hands stung with the shock. Quicker than my eyes could comprehend, her arms rippled and she folded my beloved Yamaha in half. In only slightly less time, she folded it again, in quarters. The exquisitely-formed brass tubing gave in with meek crumpling sounds.

I stood stunned, my hands feebly twitching and my mouth dropped open.

"Here," Big Ro snarled.

She thrust the twisted mass of brass into my chest. With the power of her arm behind it, my compressed ribs gave a deep thud and I flew backwards. Stars of pain blurred my vision as I ricocheted from an arcade console and came to a rolling rest on the filth covered floor. Dizzied, the room swam around me. My limbs felt flaccid and only my ears seemed to function normally.

Silver Mowk said, "Ooo!" And many Ksss echoed his expression of amazement.

Another Ksss said, "But that music was so nice."

Triumph colored Big Ro's reply. "Nice music can come later. Business now. Silver Mowk, the answer is no. The boundary is at track nine, not track seven. You can do business east of track nine."

The twisted mass of brass filled my vision, and tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I gulped air into my deflated lungs, and it hurt.

"No way, Ro," Mowk said. But his voice rasped. He was shaken. If I could hear the uncertainty, so could Big Ro. She would strike while her victory over me vibrated in the air. The club was about to erupt in blood and flying fur.

And I was shaken a lot worse than Silver Mowk. I closed my eyes for a moment and levered myself to a seated position. There was nothing I could do. My beloved Yamaha was no more. I could only slink away and hope I could escape the coming melee.

"I insist," Big Ro said gleefully. "Get him!"

The chaos I feared exploded. I found my feet and opened my eyes as Ksss battle screams shook the room. Claws flashed and heavy bodies freewheeled. I scrambled behind an arcade machine just in time to avoid getting squashed by a flying combatant.

Moments like these can bring a certain clarity. Despite the yowls, screams, and crashes of furniture shattering, in that split second the face of Holly the keyboardist swam in my vision. She gave me her lopsided smile and said, "Check this one out. Nature boy."

My lips moved, forming words.

There was a boy

A very strange enchanted boy

Another Ksss brushed my me, and I felt a warm liquid splatter on my cheek. I gasped, not at the bloody spray, but at the audacity of a new plan. I slapped my body amplifier on, sucked in a little air, and sang. Sang as in used my drab baritone singing voice.

They say he wandered very far, very far

Over land and sea

The melody snuck sneaky half steps into an otherwise classical mold, turning it into something else. Something haunting. Something blue.

The fight raged, but I continued, sliding into the end of the phrase on especially juicy jazz intervals. At least I could sing in tune.

A little shy and sad of eye

But very wise was he

It seemed quieter near me. I took in more breath. My unremarkable voice belted the second verse forth more surely.

And then one day

One magic day he passed my way

And while we spoke of many things

Fools and kings

This he said to me

Quiet had descended. I dared to emerge from behind my inadequate arcade machine shelter and face the room. A couple of cats lay on the floor, but most stared in my direction. Only a step away loomed a mass of white. Big Ro swiveled toward me, raising a hand bristling with claws.

I shut my eyes. Foolish or brave yet again, I kept singing.

The greatest thing you'll ever learn

Is just to love and be loved in return

The last note lingered. And I was not in pain. I opened my eyes to meet those of Big Ro. In that moment, we connected. I can't explain it, but across the species gap, we had a moment of accord. The refrain tumbled from my lips one more time.

The greatest thing you'll ever learn

Is just to love and be loved in return

Big Ro looked unspeakably adorable with her big eyes and pouty muzzle. Her claws retracted. Her fur laid back down. When my last note faded, she half-closed one eye.

"All right, Terran. Round two goes to you."

Her phrasing was apt. I had discovered that the Ksss were even more susceptible to jazz harmonies than classical ones, but that was only round two. It would buy some time, and reenergize the Music Patrol. But it wouldn't last. Sooner or later, Big Ro or someone like her would find a path to immunity.

Next, I would call for some backup and get the place cleaned up. To maintain the peace at Big Ro's place I would perform encores. It was expected. I would have my fill of blue fizzes.

But I wanted to get back to the green room, bad. I had a thing or two to tell Holly.