(this is the latest draft of the intro piece for the "Near Miss" series of
adventures that ran at GenCons from 1984 to 1989. Hope you all like it.)
MEET NEAR MISS: An introduction of sorts
From MUSICA GALACTICA, the 104-1113 "Troubadors of Space" issue:
"[...] Few of the touring music/vid/drama troupes, however, carry
quite the same impact as Near Miss, a band which until recently confined its
touring to the sectors Behind the Claw, but who recently crossed the Corridor
into the Imperium proper in an attempt to reach a wider audience. Near Miss
stands apart from groups like Albino Dream, Corpseshriek, Veedback, and
Orgasmic Plateau in so many ways, it is almost not worthwhile to mention them
in the same article as the others; but that, being an inexcusable insult in
the face of their talents, is not permissible either, so we must apologize to
the Shriekers and Veedheads and step into a cleaner, more polished spotlight
for a while.
"Most of the troubador bands have a small, tight lineup, with Albino
Dream's six members considered quite a large number. They stick exclusively
to a set musical style, and vary from it only slowly and with great care so as
not to chance losing their vast and potentially fickle audiences. And, due to
the uniquely human love of such art forms, they tend to be all human in makeup
and to attract a predominantly human audience. Near Miss violates every one of
these hard and fast rules in its tenure as a frighteningly eclectic eight-piece
ensemble of humans and nonhumans alike. Nobody can tell precisely what they'll
play next, and in their home territory they are as much beloved of Vargr and
Aslan audiences as they are of human crowds. There are few, if any, automated
sequences in their music, and they pride themselves on the total spontaneity
of live performance, succeeding or failing on their own merits from night to
night and leaving nothing to the cold clutches of the mechanized musician. The
playlist for a Near Miss concert can range from Vargr moonhowls to Aslan fury
marches to Solomani rock and roll to Vilani shidagga, and all are played with
an irreverent enthusiasm that's as infectious as it is disarming. While
they've not yet begun to attract the huge crowds that flock to Veedback shows,
they nevertheless have a loyal following on many worlds, ranging in age from
nine to ninety and in musical taste from ancient classical to modern
slashnoise. And perhaps most bizarre of all is their lifestyle: rather than
the usual one-night-to-a-groupie flings, they live sedately in an almost
familial closeness, and each of them is happily married...to another band
member(!).
"Clearly, this band stands out as unusual in the troubador genre;
their music polished, their personal lives quiet, their style truly unique."
*****
>From the private archives of the above article's writer: also dated 104-1113
"I was lucky enough to secure an interview with the band just after a
successful series of concerts on Guranthu, while they awaited fueling for
their tour ship, the Peggisu. They were oddly reticent about some questions,
effusive about others, and generally seemed willing only to add to the sense
of mystery that surrounds them. While their real names are a matter of record,
they prefer their stage nicknames when dealing with the press, so that's what
I agreed to use here.
"Captain Crisis, or CC as he likes to be called, is the band's leader
and front man, playing keyboards in the old Solomani style and lending the
band its best-known voice. His wife, known as Windy, plays various wind
instruments as well as the Terran sixwire ghitar. Although she'd normally be
considered quite old for a rock goddess, she carries herself like a teenager,
acting younger in some ways than Torch, the young vidtech whose light shows
and vids form an integral part of the show. Torch is actually the youngest
member of the band, barely half the age of her husband Docshock, who handles
the live sound for the group's concerts as well as producing their albums. The
other four members of the band are the nonhumans: two Aslan and two Vargr,
both pairs about as uncharacteristic of their races as one could imagine. Hug,
the huge furydrummer, resembles a stuffed tiger toy more than a fierce Aslan
warrior in his demeanor, and his lady Fuse seems to grant him a good deal more
free rein than most Aslan wives. As for the Vargr, well, Tinker and Motormutt
appear to be fighting to some degree or another virtually all the time,
creating a tension that they carry on stage in their fierce duels on badaan
and suerzkfuerrghz. The flareups added to the high sense of nervousness in the
band's demeanor at what would normally be a routine interview....
MUSICA GALACTICA: "Thanks very much for granting this interview."
[Various polite noises of assent; Motormutt yawns widely and is cuffed on
the ear by Tinker, who begins to snarl at him in some Vargr dialect, perhaps
Arrghoun or Gvegh. The argument carries on in the background of the first few
minutes of the interview.]
CC: "Don't mind them. Tinker's angry 'cause Motormutt stepped on her solo
tonight. She's real touchy about that; badaan players don't solo often."
MG: "It seems that you make it a point to give everyone plenty of room...."
CC: "You have to, with this bunch. Have you ever awakened with somebody's
wounded artistic sensibilities sticking out from between your shoulder bl--
OW!" [There is a pause. CC glares at Windy, who glares back.] Sorry. My bad
knee's acting up. As I was saying, this bunch is too damned dangerous for me
to stiff out of a solo--OW! DAMN IT!" [Windy's glare is now hot enough to melt
a jump coil. CC looks at her and continues, a bit more subdued.] Sorry. What I
mean is..." [he looks at Windy, who now appears to be ignoring him]"...is
that we have to travel and work together day in and day out, and rarely get a
vacation from each other's company, so it's important to give anyone plenty of
room so they don't feel stifled." [a menacing look at Windy] "Wouldn't you
agree, sweetheart?"
WINDY [sweetly]: "My sentiments exactly, love."
MG: "Are there ever battle lines drawn among the band members? I mean, there
are an awful lot of ways you all could be polarized over an issue: by race, by
age, even by sex."
MOTORMUTT: "Nobody fights about sex, young lady. Not in this crowd." [I wince
involuntarily, expecting another blowup from Tinker, but she seems quite
content to gently lick the outside of her mate's ear.] "I've been living among
shavetails long enough to know a pretty one from an ugly one, and our two are
among the prettiest..." [Torch giggles at this, and Windy blows Motormutt a
kiss]"...but shavetail women aren't for me. This one [He flicks an ear at
Tinker] is my only travelling companion and I'm hers, and every gig takes us
further and further away from any choice in the matter. We fight about anything
and everything, including her stupid badaan sol--kyai!" [Tinker has fastened
her teeth into his ear. He winces but continues gamely.] "...stupid badaan
solos, but never about sex...ki...yi..." [I leave him to extricate his ear from
his mate's teeth.]
MG: "That isn't precisely what I meant...."
WINDY: "Oh, he knows, kid, he's just being difficult. As a matter of fact, we
tend to polarize along sex lines a lot, but that has more to do with the
band's lineup than anything else."
MG: "Ah! Because the women always have front stage?"
WINDY: "Mm-hm. It's good staging practice to have all of the melody
instruments out front, and in this band that means the stuff the ladies play.
Since CC usually only does background stuff, he stays back in the rhythm
section with Hug and 'Mutt, and we have to be careful not to hog the
limelight...they're working harder than we are, and don't get any credit."
TINKER: "It's good for them. Keeps them in their place. Behind us, that is."
[Motormutt was able to retrieve his ear at last when she opened her mouth to
speak; he now keeps his ears folded flat against further attacks.]
MG: "Tinker, why the badaan? That's a human instrument, isn't it?"
TINKER: "Yes, it's of pre-Rule of Man Suerrat extraction. It's normally used
as a drone instrument for string ensembles, but Vargr have always loved its
sound, even alone. It's all the low frequency stuff..." [her ears twitch] "It
seems to work directly on the brain. And when you amplify it, it's just
unbelievable. I originally started out on what the Solomani call a base
ghitar, because it was easier to amplify, but the badaan's range is so much
lower that there just wasn't any comparison."
MG: "But don't Suerrat classicists consider an amplified badaan, well...?"
TINKER [with a half-barked laugh]: "Heretical? Kfaekh, yes! I've been nearly
lynched a couple of times by mobs after my pelt. They don't scare me, though;
after all I've been through--" [She is interrupted by Motormutt; a loud bark
in Gvegh(?). She stares at him, then seems to relax, and finishes sheepishly]
"--what with touring for frontier audiences and all, I don't mind a few high-
port critics slinging skymelons at me."
MG: "Hug, you've been awfully quiet all this time. Don't you have anything to
add?"
HUG: [His brow wrinkles in a very human attitude of deep thought; he tweaks a
whisker, delicately sticks a finger into an ear to clean it, strokes his chin,
and answers very quietly:] "Nope."
FUSE: [her voice is startling to the uninitiated, a perfect command of
Galanglic mixed with a throaty purr] "Leave him be. He and I enjoy our places
in the band, and the work we do with our friends. We have no interest in
trying to formulate stimulating answers to your questions."
MG: "Not even how you manage to play a ghitar with your hands shaped like
that?"
FUSE: "I play barre chords a lot. Now if you don't mind...."
MG: "Where does the nickname Fuse come from?"
[Fuse's ears flatten back against her skull and her eyes narrow to slits]
FUSE: "I have a short temper!"
MG: "Oh. [pause] Um, Torch! Torch, do you ever feel slighted at the lack of
attention given you as a non-musician member of the band?"
TORCH: [brightly] "Oh, no! Everyone's just so nice to one another, no ego
problems or star complexes, I never feel bad about being a vidtech. If I did,
they'd be doing it in the dark a lot more often." [There is a roar of laughter
from the humans and Vargr, and even Hug and Fuse hiss slightly. Torch turns
red to the ears and sits a bit closer to Docshock. He speaks, his voice almost
sepulchural in quality.]
DOCSHOCK: "What she means is that it's hard to be unhappy with your lot when
you're in control of the entire show. She and I are the puppet masters, pulling
the strings. No sound, no light, no concert." [a wintry smile] "Besides, we
do get on stage every now and again. About the only one who doesn't is George."
MG: "George? Who's George?"
CC: "He's our head of security and chief bouncer. He keeps us safe from the
rowdies." [he raises his voice] "Hey, George!"
[The door slides open. I look up, and see no one. Then, looking down at the
sound of tiny footsteps, I see a Droyne Sport walking in from the bedrooms;
he has a backstage pass around his neck and a belt with a com unit.]
CC: "George, say hello to the nice reporter."
GEORGE: [in a reedy squeak] "Hello to the nice reporter." [We shake hands.]
MG: "George, what do you really do?"
GEORGE: [proudly] "Head of Security Ops. What humans call a 'bouncer'."
MG: "You're kidding! You're the one in charge of protecting...him?" [I point
at Hug, who grabs my hand and half pulls my arm out of its socket.]
HUG: [dangerously quietly] "George is my friend."
GEORGE: "Let her go, Hug. She's no different than anyone else who sees me for
the first time. Yes, miss, I am. And I'm good at my job. Have you ever heard of
the band being attacked or harassed in the past three years?"
MG: "Well, no..."
GEORGE: [smugly] "Well, there's my record. I'm krinaytsyuni; nobody can
threaten a Droyne who's already dead."
MG: "...Dead?"
TORCH: [quickly] "He means, ritually dead. He was suicidal before we convinced
him to join us. He'd lost his tyafelm, his family group, and was all alone; we
took him in, and now we're his kroyloss, his fraternity, sorta."
CC: "I wouldn't trade him in for a dozen Imperial Marines in full armor."
[George's tiny chest swells with pride at that.] "He's the best--" [He is
interrupted by a beep from George's com unit. George tunes in the unit,
chitters a few words in Oynprith, listens intently, then speaks to CC]
GEORGE: "Sir, Baskerville reports a theft at the theatre. Someone's made off
with the gate for the concerts!"
[The reaction from the others is startling. Each and every band member is out
of his or her chair in an instant, heading for the door to the motel suite
bedrooms. For a brief moment I am reminded of the cool precision of a crack
military unit. Then, almost at once, they remember me, stumble to a halt at
the doorway, and turn back to look at me. There is a long pause, then---]
CC: "Excuse us. We have to, um, call the police."
TINKER: "And our lawyers."
DOCSHOCK: "The insurance company...."
MOTORMUTT: "Theatre security--just to see what's going on, y'know--"
WINDY: "And our sponsors. Excuse us." [They file out through the door, closing
it behind them]
"My experiences from the rest of the evening were quite strange. Not
having been dismissed, I elected to wait a while and see if they came back.
After a few minutes of muffled activity from beyond the door, there was
silence. I waited a few more minutes, then heard movement again beyond the
door. I knocked, and was greeted by a small utility robot, who told me that
cleanup of the motel suite was underway, and would I please leave now? I
glanced beyond the robot; the suites were in a shambles of scattered linens
and towels, and there was no sign of Near Miss. Or their luggage, for that
matter. Fuming at being abandoned without even a goodbye, I allowed myself to
be escorted to the door by the cleanup robot. It wasn't until I got to the
elevator that I realized that there was only one exit from the room! I went
back and knocked, first quietly, then loudly. There was no answer. I pounded
the door and called; still nothing. Finally, I went down to the lobby; the
desk clerk informed me tersely that the band had checked out, and returned to
watching the special bulletin playing on the newsvid. My gaze wandered to the
vid, and was caught there. It was a news report of a bloody gunbattle in the
city center between a gang of thieves who'd robbed the theatre not half an
hour before, and an unknown group of mercenaries bent on getting the money
back. Their identity was a mystery; they attacked the barricaded thieves in a
frontal assault via air/raft, and
There was the click of a gun's hammer being cocked. I lifted my hands
from the keyboard, slowly turning in my chair. There was the revolver,
pointing straight at my face. And on the other end was Tinker, dressed in a
black coverall with a number of patched bullet holes. After what I'd seen on
the news vid, I wasn't surprised. Not one bit.
"We've seen enough, shavetail," Tinker said quietly. "Get out of the
chair." As I did so, the door to the living room opened, and Fuse's
head peeked in through the crack. "Living room all clear," she whispered.
"Bedroom's empty too," came another quiet voice. I turned my head
to look; it was Torch, holding the biggest pistol I'd ever seen in my
life in one hand... and a pair of men's briefs in the other. Oh God, I thought
sickly. Torch walked up to me and waved the briefs under my nose. "Where is
he?"
"He--he's not here tonight, I swear! He just left his dirty laundry,
he stays over once or twice a week, please don't hurt him, please...." My
voice shook, and my knees wobbled; Torch pushed me back into my chair. I
closed my eyes to hold back the tears, and felt rather than saw the weapon's
huge muzzle against my forehead. Torch's voice somehow wasn't cute any more.
"I said, where is he?"
"Not here." It was Windy's voice, cool and authoritative. "Open your
eyes, kid; we're not going to kill you. Not yet. Maybe not at all." The cold
pressure left my forehead. I opened my eyes. Windy was there with Torch,
Tinker and Fuse; the whole sexy lineup, a ghastly parody in black. There was a
gun in Windy's hand, a front-loading 9mm Scout survival pistol with a scope
and shoulder stock attached. As I watched numbly, Windy pulled a small
silencer from her belt and screwed it onto the barrel. She pointed the gun at
my sweat-beaded forehead. The others put their weapons away. There was no
longer a need for them, it seemed; the one silent bullet in the scout pistol
was all they needed.
I forced composure into my voice. "What do you want?"
Windy's voice, still cool, held the trace of a smile. "Kill the story.
At least the gnarly parts."
"Why should I?" I was determined not to die like a coward, if I
had to die at all. "The truth's the truth! Do you know what a story this is?
'ROCK BAND DOUBLES AS MERCENARY UNIT!' It would make my career!"
"And ruin ours." Fuse's voice was an angry hiss. Her hand slowly
reached inside her jumpsuit and remained there. "Do you think we want to be
known as 'the band that bathes in blood?' That's why we left the Marches! No
more frontier wars, no more corsairs and petty warlords killing each other for
the scraps the Glorious Imperial Navy and the Zhodani leave behind when the
maps are redrawn...."
"No more hordes of morons drooling over the reality simulations,"
Tinker growled in assent. "Utovoghs? Oekhsos? Pfagh!" She spat.
Torch nodded, her tiny face pale and drawn. "We've come into the main
body of the Imperium just to leave the fighting behind. So many mercenary
units pass through Guranthu on the way to Reaver's Deep that the police will
never catch us."
"Assuming nobody helps them, that is," Tinker snarled.
Torch waved her into silence. "Can't you see? If you run that story,
we'll never be able to play another concert. We'll be ruined."
"Then why'd you agree to the interview in the first place? You must
have realized the risks...."
"What risks?" Tinker sneered. "That there'd be action so close to the
interview? Kfaekh, if that robbery hadn't taken place, you'd have just tossed
us off as another bunch of behind-the-claw weirdos who didn't interview well!"
"The point is, the damage is done. Or rather, is ready to be done."
Torch looked me in the eyes. "We want you to promise us not to run the story."
"And if I don't?"
No one answered that. Windy merely cocked her pistol.
"And what if I do promise? You'll leave, and ship offworld, and I
could just run it anyway."
"You wouldn't do that." Windy shook her head with a smile. "You've got
your reputation as a journalist to protect. Breaking a vow of confidentiality?
It doesn't matter how good the story was; you'd divebomb your own career."
"Besides," Fuse said mildly, "You'd only prolong your life until the
news reached us...and next time it might not be as clean as a bullet to the
head." Almost casually, she pulled her hand from her jumper and opened it
before my eyes, showing me what she was holding. I couldn't help it-- I
screamed blue murder. Windy's pistol cracked me across the mouth, cutting off
my cries. She stuck the gun under my nose and held my chin still with one
strong hand. I thought I could smell the bullet waiting for me.
As long as I live, I will never forget the next words Windy said. She
was as matter-of-fact as if she were discussing whether or not to pursue a
questionable stock deal, or perhaps to squash a harmless but annoying insect.
"We're through asking. You're only getting one chance. Yes or no?"
The silence stretched for what seemed like hours. I thought about
life, death, bloodshed, remembered the horrible scenes on the vid, the thieves
mowed down as they tried to escape, the screams of the crowd-- and then the
screams changed to something else. Not screams of terror, but screams of joy
and adulation, the earsplitting shrieks of kids having more fun than Mom and
Dad would ever allow, if they only knew. The concert! The crowds dancing in
the aisles, the people clapping their hands and singing along to the parts
they knew, no harm done, just fun, just music... and the musicians. There they
were, bathed in the lasers and the spotlights, sweating with the effort,
driving rhythm and screaming melody in the light, smiles on every face. They
were free... alone with each other, alone with their fans, free for a while
from cares, from worries about what lay ahead on the long starlit road, free
from...from what? I'd wondered about that for a long time, watching them up
there. Now I knew, and it made my decision for me.
I wasn't ready to die after all. "I...agree. Yes. I'll kill it."
For a brief moment, I wasn't sure I'd made the right choice. What
happened next banished my doubts. The tension in the room vanished like smoke
in the wind. Windy lowered the pistol and dropped the hammer, Fuse's hand
(don't think about it) went back into her jumper, Tinker released her breath
in a whoosh as Torch gave me that bright smile again. They trusted me. God
knows why, but they did.
"Thank you. There's been enough killing for one day." Torch's voice
held none of the bravado of the previous minute. They filed into the dining
room. The dining room? At the door, Windy turned to me and spoke:
"Remember to keep your promise." The cold half smile. "We keep ours."
And then she was gone. I was frozen for a long moment. Then I leaped from my
chair and ran to the dining room.
Of course! The balcony door was unlocked; after all, who'd come in on
the 300th floor? And there it was: the gleaming black air/raft with the
traditional trimmings of a hearse, Motormutt at the controls, Docshock and Hug
scanning the skies and the street below for pursuit, a black flutter of bionic
wings that had to be George, and at the center of it all, CC lounging in the
passenger seat, gauss pistol in hand and smiling like he hadn't a care in the
world. The last lady climbed aboard, oblivious to the thousand-meter drop
below, and the raft pulled away from the building. CC waved, a light goodbye,
and the raft heeled over and was gone like a wraith in the night.
There was someone pounding on the door. "Miss! Miss! I heard a scream!
Are you all right?"
"Coming..." I managed. I touched the bruise on my mouth as I walked
to the door. I decided I'd fallen and cracked my chin against the desk. And on
my way there, I stopped to archive and delete the article. After all, a
promise was a promise, and besides, maybe being worthy of Near Miss's trust
wasn't such a bad thing after all.
- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[this story and all information in it are copyrighted 1984,1989 metlay]