At once, shot from a rocket and propelled beyond the logarithmic tangential of gravity’s zenith, space-bound and screaming like a madman through the windows of a vaulted airship, Azmaraz- dazed in flounder above the Earth’s magnetic field- comes into space-trance after being ejected into a night-scape of swirling stars and arabesque galaxies, all transient in a cornucopia of chaos. He pulls his hair, grinds his teeth, and bludgeons his eyes with cold-blue nails, but the drag breaks his balance, and he plummets about the airship’s interior, which, when back on Earth and standing stationary inside it, seemed to him a safe harbor of random gizmos and gadgets. Now they’ve become animated and waste no time in assaulting him like a back-alley street gang would, shouting at him with its dials, pushing him around with buttons of lucite.
Amid all this mayhem the rocket collides with an asteroid and spins about like a rotor-blade. Azmaraz, trying to grip the air for something and finding a throttle, accidentally opens the release hatch, inviting the vacuous tempest of outer space into his airship. His spinning around- adjoint to the head rush from immediate pressure loss- snaps the frail boundary between sanity and insanity and sends him well beyond the dark side of the moon on both measures of paranomasia.
Behind the rocket there approaches the foulest of human dignitaries- one Major De Ville- in a capsule specially designed for the junkies of a post-corporate dystopia. Once he met De Ville when he had no idea whose side he was on, back at the infirmary of the rebellion. His first impression of him was Second-rate bullock. I hate it when people say uh-hum, uh-hum while you’re speaking to them, hurrying you along to get to your point, eager to side-step what you’re trying to communicate in order to say what’s so important on their own mind, like it just has to get it out no matter how insignificant it is. God, I could have wrung his steroid-infected neck. To get off that godforsaken planet and still be near him was an awful proposition that seemed to be the soundest proof of his hollow karma.
In the endless domain of space, Azmaraz is having a bit of difficulty in comprehending the meaning of it all: why he has to die in a careening spaceship so far away from the people that made his life worth living, and with nothing but this unleashed ape hot on his trails. To have the universally hated Major the closest being in the vicinity of his untimely death takes more air out of his lungs than the vacuum pulling him into oblivion. Then, like a miracle from Arabian Nights, an elixir came pouring out of the cornice of the spaceship and saturated Azmaraz’ breath with an intricate potency. A chimera from the Ether filled his nostrils with a potion so obscure to man that not one of them on Earth could have contained it if he tried, for the molecule that had perpetrated his skull could only be found past the Mona Lisa Smile of the moon. Panaesthetism came into his consciousness and at once his mind flashed delirious entropies of cosmic understanding: electric mania that perished all that he thought he knew. To get high or not to get high, that is the question, thinks Azmaraz. He opens his eyes and lets go, slipping away from reality, releasing himself from the throttle holding him in place. Through the starry matrix he tumbles, contemplating the Music of the Spheres.
The Major, transfixed by the oddity of an incoming missile shaped like a man, gapes and prepares for impact. Hostile guerrilla Azmaraz Penning lands on the window of the vessel, and De Ville can see both the little swirling phosphenes dancing in his eyes and his tongue pasted to the surface of the glass. Evidently, he's oblivious to the Major’s presence, and impervious to space’s inhospitable environment. This starry-eyed little devil, the P-league’s most wanted criminal, who’d almost frightened De Ville’s overly conscious ego into rare submission once, who's now stuck out there like an idiot and for some mysterious reason still alive- with that smile so imbalanced as to be mocking him- infuriates the reddening Major beyond repair. But before he has time to do anything about it, sidelong shrapnel from the rocket makes a beeline hit on the pod’s engine, causing the very fabric of space to rupture in an explosion. De Ville’s rage abruptly gives way to a second wave of imperial dread as he spins around on a swivel chair out of control, crying for the Angels of War to stop this madness, this celestial invasion of impossibilities. Upon collision, reactions are taking place; chemical ones beyond the comprehension of man; ones that induce a hyper-current of elastic time, setting the ship to the waltz of warp-speed space travel.
The universe whizzes by in a kaleidoscopic torrent. Nebulous clouds of astral dust withstanding billow up dazzling colors beyond beauty, so bountiful that Azmaraz can only perceive the penumbras of satellites in half-seconds and thinks he’s on a roaring train back on Earth watching sporadic trees zipping by, with flashes of opalescent matter confiscated to the laws of time, while he, the delectable cowboy soaring with the wind, pioneers through the unexplored Beyond, with distant eyes shining from the light of a star. Antimatter’s redeeming benefit is proven to be in great abundance throughout the universe. Azmaraz can only smile, momentarily absent of worry that the cosmic drug was only an isolated phenomenon. Meanwhile, De Ville is in shock-dementia, catatonically retarded by the overwhelming brilliance of the universe’s time lapse, much less stupefied by the astronomical odds of his nemesis’ survival.
Azamaraz sees something strange now: a figment in the dust of deep space. She is Minerva incarnated from a nebula, swelling and swirling through the misty horizon. Minerva leads them into a realm of astronomical wonders on their tour of the cosmos, which by scientific proclivity has been delegated to the Roman pantheon. Lyra goes by first- the star-field beyond Vega a mesmerizing blob of magenta. Then into the manifold nebulae of the Sagittarius Arm they speed, passing through Trifid and receiving a lacquered kiss from the pink and roseate Voluptas. Inside her steamy passion-balloon Azmaraz distinguishes a hazy unicorn bucking his head invitingly with a look of mortified alarm settling upon its face. Minerva’s owl escorts them between two of the pantheon’s masterpieces; on the right is Salacia’s dreamy Lagoon Nebula- a translucent whirlpool of greens and blues. Then on the left is a tower where Caelus sits atop a pinnacle in the thrall of Iris’ rainbow. Az is now unsure of whether he is stoned, dreaming, or dead; or if such visions really exist, because the Omega Nebula with Iris’ heavenly wand is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. After their passage through this mystical dust, drunken Bacchus and his parading Nymphs swoon the capsule in obnoxious mockery. By the testicles of Janus, it’s a deranged mortal, Ahahahahaha! Then, at the heart of the arm, a most unbelievable spectacle approaches, which looks like the Hand of God but is actually the Pillars of Creation. They are branches of the Eagle Nebula, sprung from the offspring of Maia, who’s winking at Azmaraz as she pours water into the basin of an orbital tree. Other nebula, whose nomenclatures have yet to be assigned by man, bring forth more psychedelic apparitions unfolded by the hallucinogens of deep space. One looks like an orchard and another a garden, both tended by the graces of Pomona and Flora. Hey cowboy, comes a whispering from Pomona’s seductive mouth. She flirtatiously lifts a ripe citrus fruit to the rubies of her lips. Indeed, he is a fucking space cowboy, and what’s better is he’s riding on the ass of that wretched De Ville: his bitch, his subjugated donkey.
Now a gigantic wall of dust obscures the galactic core from view, and as they travel through it De Ville is plotting a new Fall, the scourge of man beyond Earth- a glorious sin involving subject Penning and several submachine guns laying on the floor nearby. The Scutum-crux and Norma arms appear abruptly through the thin wall. Vulcan’s powerful glow is blinding, powerful, and positively awe-inspiring as the depth of the star-field is flooded with a density of luminaries so overwhelming that Azmaraz is unable to open his eyes. He can hear Bacchus still laughing, and in his differential, he sees half-eaten grapes falling from the God’s messy chin. He can slightly open his eyes, and on peering through the slit of blasted napalm he can make out a violently red nebula thrashed into creation by the passionate lovemaking of Carna and Sol. Their stars are exploding like an orgasmic release, their organic remnants left in the shape of hearts. Here he can perceive that the entire inner galaxy is a conglomeration of supernovas, nebulae and star clusters that are virtually everywhere. He can’t open his eyes any wider, nor can he comprehend the scope of brilliance taking place on the mythological frontier. The closer they get to the singularity at the center of the galaxy, the more powerful the drug becomes, and the more his brain is diverging from the sterility of De Ville’s.
But the ship is slowing down, he can feel it. The deep breath of Terminus is before them, and then he knows why; the singularity cannot be physically experienced (for who could possibly survive the suction of a Black Hole?), it can only be mentally experienced. On the foreground of Discordia’s canvas, the capsule comes to a complete stop and Azmaraz can finally take in a deep breath: a breath that entreats yet another dosage of hyper-narcotics. Exasperated, depleted of his bearings, and yet still under the influence of antimatter, he sees the disturbing image of his worst nightmare rearing its angry head behind the window of the capsule.
De Ville puts on his shades, rolls up his sleeves, cracks his knuckles, and cocks the submachine guns. Deciding that ten seconds would be all it would take to vaporize this supernatural pest- enough time to prevent him from any symptoms of space exposure- he releases the hatch on the ceiling and climbs out onto the causeway separating him from Azmaraz. Because of a pendulous parallax caused by the syzygy of several moons behind him, it’s hard to make out his figure through the overpowering glow, even with shades on. The major knows he only has seconds to kill him, so he lunges through the exit of the capsule looking like a jacked-up exterminator before the blazing fire of a nuclear holocaust.
“Isn’t it strange? None of this has even happened yet!” calls Az in his deranged, drunken stupor.
Him and his swagger. That nobody-messes-with-me, middle-finger-in-the-air hipster act makes De Ville want to toss away the guns and strangle him with his own two hands: a much more personal, self-gratifying murder that he’s often lived out in his dreams. “What are ya talkin’ about, ya looney!?”
“Earth. The light here... is ahead of us... but behind the Earth.”
The major’s patience is thinner than a thread of cat fur. At this point he thinks Penning is nothing but a driveling psychopath on the verge of spontaneous combustion. That is, unless there really are special properties of space that are allowing the circulation of oxygen in his own body to continue. De Ville doesn’t perceive any hints of cyanosis or hypoxia about himself, and the only disorienting phase of neurosis he’s suffering from is the one caused by this wide-eyed idiot that he’s hunted to the ends of the universe. He ignores Penning’s nonsense and unleashes a rhinoceros of artillery stocked around his waist. Shots are fired through the vacuous medium, but Azmaraz is still standing. “What the devil?”
His foe looks to be shot but is laughing hysterically. Azmaraz, after faking an injury, boisterizes, "Guns won’t fire without oxygen, captain obivous!”"
The Major feels light-headed now; a wave of dysphoric inebriety fogs his head. A loss of sensation, in conjunction with the paralogism of everything he thought he knew, collapses the major’s strength, exposing the cornerstone of his decrepit spirit. He can’t for the life of him remember where he is or what’s happening. All he can feel is the liberated sensation of falling. But unlike Azmaraz, the liberation is more like a threat: something he can’t control. Then he sees Penning and an acute flash of remembrance spurns his legs into high gear. His brain tells him that he’s running, but his body tells him he isn’t going anywhere. All he can do to get to him is kick about wildly, like a drowning infant in the sea. Not only that, but everything is in slow motion and the stars are evoking an authoritarian anthem of foreboding, like the one his soldiers in battle often sang before the smiting of death’s fist. The muse is harrowing to his bones: transcendent in the opposite direction. But does he honestly give a shit? No, because he’s almost there, almost to that place where his entire life has led him; to the capturing of the master of guerilla terrorism, to Azmaraz Penning, the most dangerous man in the known galaxy.
But the vacuum of space is taking him away. The mongrel had taken a suicidal jump off the capsule and is now floating off into the deep. The major does the only thing he can do- jump after him. Now the stars, animated like the Gods they were named after, as transfigured organs of the pan-ultimate mythology, continue to mock him in song and laughter. Everything’s backfiring, going awry. At this point he knows he’s going to die. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. You’ve got to take life by the hands and make something of it. Don’t let anything get in your way, not even death. A broken ambition, a lie. And all this illustrated fuck can do is laugh at him. Aggravated, completely helpless, shitting his pants and wanting his mother, the man is unaware that the gravitational pull from a nearby planet allows for a momentary bump into Azmaraz, and the rabid fire in his eyes rekindles while his mouth salivates again for the rebel feed.
Penning feels no fear at all. He only feels the euphoric embrace of the buzz, even after De Ville- whose fist could only move at a wheel bug’s speed- lands a punch to his jaw. You can’t hurt ME! Not with my METEOR helmet! Allowing the moment to happen, blissful in the advent of a newfound experience, he wraps his arms around De Ville like a saint, reciting an incantation whispered to him from the lungs of Pomona. The Roman paradigm shifts, then circles around the falling duo as a parade of crows would stock a nomad on the desert floor. They watch as Minerva yields to Aion’s weary wings, who directs them into the vortex of a glittering rainbow-planet that is dotted with all kinds of colorful mixtures. The transition to free fall is imminent as the narcotics start wearing off. The Gods are disappearing, but De Ville can still hear their voices. Azmaraz is still at peace; the nebulae still burn in the aorta of the Milky Way.
Az is trying to hold on for the dear life of De Ville. The rowdy specimen, assisted by the boney fingers of Mors, breaks free of his grip, so that the embodiment of their falling separates into two. Hazy strands of giant phosphorescent follicles twist around them inside the planet’s atmosphere: a paragon for solar wind, plasma’s electric encore. Out of the misty-orange sky they fall, and from the chaos of an unknown landscape below there are various intelligent life forms watching in awe, preparing for one of their many alien encounters. Hespera’s dusk is waiting for the Major on a rocky precipice high above an effeminate sea, and he can see her there waiting for him even after the drugs have worn off. She’s a Hellish apparition that sucks out any remaining breath left in his gravity-torn lungs. His impact is fatal; from the Other Side he looks around and notices Penning, still airborne but below the precipice and headed towards a different landscape: one which looks like a vast snowy plain with a pinkish hue. Watching in greedy delight, he taps his fingers together, anticipating the death of his long-time nemesis- a short cry for the fairness of dying himself. But there, out on a white carpet the dawn of Aurora glides, anticipating the landing of her lucky guest, knowing that his anchorage is on a safely compressed, puffy-pink sea of cotton under the planet’s sky. The dead Major can’t believe his eyes, and he howls disapproval at the Gods above, who continue to laugh at him, unmercifully.
Upon impact, the humanoid is embraced by an accommodating softness of elastic vapor. Azmaraz, dizzy and buoyant, looks up at the sky watching an ethereal phenomenon- what on Earth they called Aurora Borealis, the only difference here being that this one is super-conducted, and the Goddess is physically manifested in it. Her hair is in the coils of those fluorescent streaks. He whispers a faint thank you to the one who saved his life. The last remnants of antimatter’s hallucinogen allow him to glimpse the shiny effervescence in her eyes before they depart into the catacombs of the Ether. They are physically miraculous inside the shifting strands of her ionically charged filaments. On a billowy terrace there approaches some indigenous beings that may or may not be well versed in the medical arts. The otherworldly human can only hope that beyond the sea of puff there be resources for his needs. But what if there aren’t? Well, the Gods do enjoy their callous jokes.
