The transport bumped along a barren, sandy bank, slipping and skidding as it kicked back clouds of dust. They rose in massive arabesques, reaching out towards the ochre yellow skies of Titan, choking the passengers. The interior of the transport shook violently. Sitting in the middle of the left row, wedged in between his backpack and rifles, Gren Eckener cursed under his breath and gripped the sides of his seat as the transport threatened to hurl him from his place. He squinted across the dust and heat, barely making out the other ten men who made up his troop. They rode in silence, faces grim and silent as they swayed in their seats. Their captain, Swedberg, a tall, dark skinned man with a crew cut, had closed his eyes, his lips moving without a sound, singing to himself to pass the time.

A voice rose from the back, "Damn this fucking sand." A chorus of grunts and half-hearted laughs greeted his words. Gren craned his neck to get a better look at the man who had spoken and found himself staring into a pair of hard, ash-grey eyes instead. They seemed dead, sunk beneath white bangs, turned inwards and acknowledging nothing. They came into focus with a snap, irises contracting in a heart-beat. Gren started, slumping back into his seat with a hoarse cough meant to be an apology. Too much dust. It swirled around him, obscuring the features of the man beside him. He had turned his face away, looking towards the soldier who had cursed the road. Gren coughed out one final apology and slumped further down into his seat.

He could see the horizon through the flaps of the transport, spreading out in a thin, orange line beneath a piss yellow sky. The colours mingled in his vision, leaving a bad taste in his mouth and retina. He had never particularly liked Titan. The colour yellow set his teeth on edge, and here it spread out for as far as the eye could see, blanketing the world in a tired, never ending late afternoon. He hated it. He turned his gaze away from the sky and focused on his boots as they dangled from his seat. Crossed lacing, dust clinging to their soles, they looked up at him in silence, grinning from the darkness of the transport's floor.

"What the hell you wanna do in Titan?" His father's words, delivered as he shelled peas at the kitchen table, his thin, sagging arms swatting away flies as he worked.

Gren leaned against the sink, his arms folding across his chest as he cast his eyes towards his mother. She met his eyes with a sigh, eyebrows knitting together before she set down her sewing and leaned forward to place one pale hand against her husband's. "Howie, you promised the boy he could do this. You remember. If the scholarship turned him down, he could join the army. You told him last spring." Her words barely rose over the low, droning buzz of insects outside, her eyes washed out and tired as his father pealed out three peas and grunted under his breath. He ran his tongue over parched, cracked lips and focused on Gren, his eyes hard.

"That what you wanna do? Go to war?"

Gren nodded, slowly. The air inside the house seemed too dry, lodging in his throat. He found it hard to say anything. The scrape of his father's nails against the green flesh of the pea pods slithered across his nerves, keeping him in place, as if in a trance.

"What about that saxophone of yours? Didn't you wanna play at the club, what's it called...? Hi-something," his father said, then fell silent, pealing out a few more peas, his long fingers swatting away at the flies in absentminded half circles. A tiny green caterpillar crawled out of the next pea pod, and Gren watched in rapt attention as his father crushed it under his thumb. Thin flesh pressing firmly over the caterpillar's elastic, slippery body, a tiny pop escaping into the still air as the green body burst and spread. Men enjoyed killing insects. That's what his father's March issue of Men's Health Journal said. Gren averted his eyes.

"Hi-Hat," he said. "The Hi-Hat Club. But that fell through. Sandy found a girlfriend from up north and decided to quit the band. Can't have the band without Sandy's bass."

His father grunted. "Only sentimental idiots think that way."

The transport came to a bend on the road, the wheels compressing down and then upwards in a hiss of smoke as they turned, hurtling the passengers first left, then right. In the motion, Gren bit his lip, crying out before he realized what he had done. A short, black fellow in front grinned at him.

"Hey, man, you OK? First time on a ST-90 Transport, eh? Gotta keep yo' teeth aligned."

Gren nodded dumbly, running his lip over the bite, tasting copper in the dust that powdered his skin. A blond woman sitting to the right of the black man nodded as well, agreeing as she frowned at Gren for having cried out. She reached out to pat the knee of a red haired young man next to her, his head snapping up from sleep as if his neck were made of rubber. He bared a line of straight white teeth and elbowed her in greeting.

"How long before we get there?" he mumbled, his voice a high pitched drawl. The girl shrugged out a beats me. "Then why the hell'd you wake me?" he groaned. He kicked at her feet and spread out his legs, yawning widely as his limbs shot out left and right. With one languid, serpentine motion, he pulled forward a rifle that lay hooked over the left of his seat. He spread it out over his knees and made little sucking noises with his lips, his eyes half-closed as his fingers played over the surface of the weapon. They darted left and right with blind accuracy, seeming to take the weapon apart before Gren's eyes, its silvery body glittering in the weak orange light filtering through the transport's canvas opening. The young man stopped abruptly, his rubbery neck twisting upwards until his eyes were locked on Gren's.

"You know what this is, kid?"

Gren shook his head no, the motion causing a grin to spread out on the redhead's face. Smiling, he drawled out the name, a garbled union of numbers and letters that drew a whistle from the black man and a tight, knowing smile from the blond woman. Lifting the rifle up for everyone to see, the redhead ran off a long list of virtues, a second garble of fastest, percent, accuracy, and fucking best piece'a weaponry in East Jupiter. Voices rose from the back of the transport, asking about ammo, control, regulations. Captain Swedberg mentioned a friend in Mars who owned one, but had never used it. A brunette with two long braids coiled around her head grunted about an ex-boyfriend who had stolen hers. Laughter rose up at her words, the redhead's lips curling upwards in derision. Gren sat in silence, watching the scene as if it were a movie, gazing at the silvery rifle without much interest. The redhead caught his gaze and cocked his head to the left.

"Haven't got the slightest idea what this beauty is, do ya, kid?"

Gren shrugged. "I already told you no. It's a pretty gun, though. Goes nicely with that red hair of yours." He smiled as he said it, holding the young man's gaze. The redhead's eyes became slits, his mouth settling into a pale, thin line. Beside him, the blond woman's frown deepened, silence stretching out through the transport. Gren's smile faded.

"What's with you?" the redhead said. "You some kind of fag?"

His mother stood at the door to his room. He could feel her eyes on his back, following every movement. He reached out for a picture frame placed on his desk and tried to act as if she wasn't there. Sandy looked out at him from the frame. Sandy and Blue Joe and Smokey and him, the full band, leaning against the direction post outside of town. If he squinted, Gren could see the red outline of the Hi-Hat Jazz Club in the distance. They could have ruled the place. The crowds came from as far as West Jupiter to hear them play, to watch Sandy bend his ivory white neck over the bass, Blue Joe at his father's old drum set, Smokey's black clad body as it swayed to the beat as he sang the blues, Gren at the saxophone, wailing over the din and the applause. But Sandy had found Illina and Illina had objected to moving out from North Jupiter. Illina thought the Hi-Hat was filthy, that Sandy belonged in a concert hall, playing classical music. It don't mean a thing if you ain't got that swing. How many times had Sandy sang that backstage? Now he was married and living in North Jupiter, playing Vivaldi on Illina's violin. Gren flipped the frame down.

"Why are you really going to Titan?" his mother said.

Gren shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor as she came to stand beside him, her frail, thin arms resting on his shoulders. She pressed her lips against his cheek and lifted his chin so that he could see their reflections in the mirror behind his desk. They looked so much alike. Long, black hair, straight noses, washed out blue eyes. It seemed as if every day he looked more like her, his limbs tapering out into long, slim fingers. Artist's hands. Girlie hands. He reached up to place one over his mother's and gazed into her reflected eyes.
He could almost see Sandy in her face. Sandy and his wistful smile and his promises. I'll never leave you. I don't want to be anywhere else but here. That lying arse. All it took was one pretty girl. Genes. That's what he said. I can't help it, Gren, it's in my genes. My genes are pre-dispositioned to cheat, y'know? I need new thrills. Gren's hand tightened over his mother's and he removed it gently from his shoulder. She didn't say a word, merely moved aside as he walked back to his suitcase.

"I'm doing this for the money," he said. "Dad needs money. You need money."

His mother folded her arms over her thighs. "I love you, Gren. You know that, don't you? No matter what, I love you."

Gren stopped in mid motion, a folded shirt resting in his hands. He looked at his mother, his lips thinning out in embarrassment. He wanted to laugh her words away, but he saw the straight line in which she held her shoulders, the faint, almost invisible hardening of her eyes, and he knew laughter would fall dead between them. He bent to place the shirt in his suitcase and remained bent as he felt discomfort travel from his neck to his cheeks.

"How long have you...?"

She smiled, faintly, as she stepped forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders, her lilac scent against his nostrils. "Sandy's gone, Gren. You don't need him. You don't need Titan. You're pretty good at the saxophone, won't you--"

He shrugged her away, eyes fixed on his bedspread so he wouldn't see the hurt in her eyes. "We need the money, mom. Jazz isn't going to pay the bills. It was Sandy they wanted. Sandy's gone, the band's over. We'll never draw in those crowds again." He drew in a breath and held it. His mother hovered by his side, her hands rising and falling once before she turned to leave. Her footsteps shuffled down the hall, and Gren raised his head, releasing his breath. He reached out for the picture frame on his desk again and flipped it up. Sandy looked out at him in silence, grinning, his arms wrapped around Gren's shoulders, Gren smiling like a school boy even though he was twenty four in the picture. Smiling like a dolt. Smiling for Sandy.

The transport came to a halt at a steep incline. It perched precariously at the edge, held in place by two huge arms that, for all appearances, looked like giant, plastic suction cups. Gren hopped off with a sigh, stepping slowly on his limbs that threatened to buckle under him. The black man jumped down with a holler, stretching with a loud laugh and a shake of his head.

“Damn if I evah squeeze into one’a those things again,” he said. He caught sight of Gren, standing to one side with his backpack in hand, and drew closer, clasping one hand over Gren’s shoulder. “Yo’ mouth feelin’ any better?” He didn't wait for an answer, merely nodded his head towards the blond woman and the redhead, who had climbed out from the transport with tired grunts. “Don't mind those two. They hate comin’ to Titan, so they chew on anything they can find.”

Gren felt himself nod, his eyes following the redhead as he squatted down on the sand and lit a cigarette. The smoke was lost against the thin layer of dust that rose over the desert ground. Gren gave the black man a half-hearted shrug and grinned. “I don't mind. I hate Titan, too.”
The black man gave him a crooked grin. “Well, that makes the lonesome three of ya, ‘cause I love this stinking moon. Hell bettah than anythin’ they got on Earth.” He held out one gloved hand. “Name's Sid. Blond lady over there's Nail, and the redhead with the lousy attitude's Billy.”

Billy cocked his head back at the sound of his name, elastic neck glistening under the sun. He bared his teeth in a crooked smile. “That's Backpack Billy to ya, Fag Kid. Don't you forget it.” He took one long drag of his cigarette and let the smoke curl up his face, twisting in and out of his red hair, banishing into the dust that already coated the faces of the entire troop.

Gren shook Sid's hand and smiled faintly in Nail's and Billy's direction. Backpack Billy. He looked down at the redhead's backpack, hoping to see anything out of the place that might have earned him the nickname. From what he could see, it was a regular military backpack: khaki green, black belts and silver buckles and one silver canteen hooked at the right. The word eternal had been painted out in white on the top flap, the letters grainy and travel worn.

“So his backpack's really old?” he heard himself say. The words stumbled out in a jumble, his thoughts spilling out before he could check them and save himself the embarrassment of Sid lifting his eyebrows as Billy and anyone within hearing range burst into laughter.

“Fuck no,” Billy said. “This damn thing's new.” He flicked his cigarette onto the ground, smothering it under his boot and the sand. “Name's Backpack Billy ‘cause it ain't Canteen Billy.” He grinned at his own joke, his smile riding on the laughter of Sid and Nail. The sound of it rose in a bubbling mass of voices. Everyone was laughing, until it seemed as if every hand was clapping Billy on the shoulders, every eye trained on Gren’s sand dusted face, waiting for his reaction.

Gren bent to pick up his own pack and made his way down the incline. He gave Sid a half smile, kept his head lowered as he passed by Billy. He could feel his stomach contracting as he stepped in front of the redhead, anticipating a blow, a string of words that would send him sprawling. He almost felt a blow, blood and saliva rising to his mouth at the impact. He could almost see Billy draw back his fist, pull back his leg for one swift kick.

Nothing happened. The expanse of a breath rose between them, and then Gren was walking down the steep bank, and Billy was behind him.

The bus from the recruiting office arrived at 6:00 am. It sputtered to itself as two girls climbed aboard, followed by a young man who had held back to hug his little sister and brother. He waved to them as he climbed the steps, his smile brilliant and warm although his younger siblings were too sleepy to grasp what was really happening. Gren stood behind him on the steps and pictured that brilliant, smiling face on a hologram. Mr. And Mrs. Brilliant Smile, we regret to inform that your son has been killed in action, please place this plasma-gel star on your window.

His parents had seen him off in their kitchen. His father cradled a cup of coffee close to his face and grunted as Gren shook his hand. “Don't waste money on stamps. Them stupid army people always lose their mail.” His mother held him tightly, her lilac scent invading his nostrils as she kissed each cheek in turn. “Don't forget to write.” She squeezed his hands with an urgency that didn't reflect in her eyes. He kissed her cheek and stepped out with one last see ya.

The words rang in his ears as he took a seat on the bus. Two words. One breath. The distance between the backdoor of his parent's house and the bus terminal grew and multiplied, stretching across the cyberlink wires that glistened above him. Above them, winking in and out of the early morning sky, Gren could almost see the massive, spinning orbs of the Space Gates and, beyond them, the grey, cold moons of Jupiter. He sighed. An entire universe, yawning and stretching within itself. His parents were tiny dots on a gigantic map, himself, the bus, and the brilliant young man points and minuscule specs gathered around his parents. The bus rumbled to a start, lifting off the ground with a shiver. Gren twisted around in his seat, his hands gripping the rail set across the back of his seat.

Behind him, the direction post leading out of town wobbled under the hot air escaping from the bus, pointing towards the ground, towards the heavens, away from the town.

Gren sat by himself on the north end of the trench. The ditch stretched out for a good twenty miles, the ground wet and slippery under rain, blood, and vomit. The enemy trenches lay to the south, the dust covered stretch of No Man's Land that lay between them littered with yellow bones. Soldiers, their flesh eaten away at impact with enemy bombs. Gas bombs. Dropped from a carrier Billy had downed a week before, his cries mingling with the explosion. Gren sucked on an unlighted cigarette and tried not to think about the bombs. His skin tingled at the memories, and he sucked harder at his cigarette, rolling the taste of nicotine around his tongue. The clatter of canteens, rifles, and boots came and went as soldiers made their way towards the south end of the hole.

“Someone has a portable boiler down there,” Sid told him as he walked past. “You comin’?”

“Nah. I'm fine here. You got a lighter?”

Sid tossed one at him without a word, waving goodbye with a peace sign. Gren waved goodbye with the lighter's flame. Hope I get to give this back. He hadn't seen much of Sid or Nail and Billy since the hole had been dug two weeks ago. They passed each other every now and then, Sid always acting as if Gren were his old high school buddy he hadn't seen for three years, Gren tingling with superstitious dread as Sid ran off, rifle in hand, courting death with a laugh and a nod. Billy would rush past with a frown, his eyes slits beneath his turban, his lips drawing back over teeth encrusted with sand and blood.

“Damned fucking bastards,” he'd mumble, staring straight at Gren, fingering his silvery weapon.

The days stretched on in a barrage of bombings, the rattle and pop of rifles, and sand rushing beneath Gren’s feet as he scrambled to keep alive. His brain felt curiously empty, his motions mechanic as he fired and re-loaded his rifle. He stumbled over a dead body once, but had no chance to take a good look at or feel pity for whomever it had been. His comrades were pressing up against him, urging him forward, counting on him, and he made his way across the ditch without looking down. Keep looking forward, concentrate on the mechanics. Shoot, re-load, push ahead. One foot in front of the other. The days pushed against each other, melting into one under a sky overcast with dust and the residue of bomb smoke. His parents, the Hi-Hat, Sandy, it all lay miles away, unreal and gossamer frail, thinning out towards the back of his mind until the images became translucent. The distant past.

Gren took one long drag of his cigarette and looked up at the night sky. The enemy had been lying low for the last four days, sending Captain Swedberg's nerves on edge. “Any day now,” he'd mumble, “any day now.” Gren lived with the anticipation thundering in his temples, waiting for the next attack, for the bomb that would hurtle him into darkness. He couldn't picture that moment, but he knew it was waiting beyond No Man's Land, spinning itself out beneath the stars that winked down at him. He exhaled and watched the smoke curl upwards in lazy semi-circles. The constellation Leo Major shivered and folded in and out of itself. It comforted him somehow. He had never seen it before. It was only visible from the moons of Titan and Callisto, according to his science teacher, Mrs. Collado. A thin band of four stars set above two extra, mismatched stars. It looked nothing like a lion. More like a Space Table than a Space Lion.

Beside him, soldiers huddled in groups. They mumbled to themselves in low voices, heating rations over makeshift fires, a group a bit farther down the ditch playing dice. Calls of han and cho, even or odd, rose out of the heavy, apprehensive silence of people waiting for their last hour, their last breath. Beyond the groups sat a man, alone, his shoulders held in a straight line as he looked down at the ground, white, wavy bangs peeking out from beneath his turban. A faint melody rose from where he sat, tinkling to itself beneath the harsher sounds of the soldiers’ voices. A music box. In the half light of the cooking fires, Gren recognized the man as the one from the transport, the man with the dead eyes. He hadn't seen him again since the transport had arrived at rendezvous, and he'd figured the man was dead. He certainly hadn't expected him to be the kind of soldier who carried a music box in his pockets. Curious, Gren made his way towards him. Whoever he was, he hadn't laughed at Backpack Billy's jokes. That alone set him apart from the rest of the soldiers.

Gren sat beside him with a grunt, settling his rifle beside him. He lit a second cigarette and pocketed Sid's lighter. “That's a nice song,” he said. The man said nothing, merely sat, his eyes locked on the music box's spinning handle. Gren exhaled a thin trickle of smoke. His words seemed forced, unreal and petty, but he had been silent for weeks, limiting his breath to screams and yes, sir and grunts. Whether or not this man wanted to answer, Gren wanted to talk. It had been too long since he'd last heard the sound of his voice. “What's it called?” he said.

The man's shoulders shifted under his tunic. “Julia,” he said.

Gren felt a smile creep into his lips. “It's a nice tune,” he said. “Bet it'd be nice to play that on my sax back home.” He took a second drag of his cigarette. The man had fallen silent again, but Gren didn't mind. Not really. It was a comfortable sort of silence. He looked up at the space lion again, allowing the minutes to just slide by him.

The fraction of a motion made him turn his head. The man had turned towards him, his hand outstretched. The music box lay between them, cold and metallic, silent. The man's eyes held Gren’s. Grey slits, lifeless, pulling him under to smother him. Gren’s throat contracted. His hand had closed around the music box, the handle biting into his skin, suspending the moment between them. Grey eyes. Bottomless. Drawing him closer. A beautiful snake.

The eyes shifted, once, irises dilating and contracting. The man had stood up, turning to leave, the moment receding, the music box lying in Gren’s hand. He wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, but only a breath escaped. A hand pressed against his forehead, the force of it holding him in place. The man moved and stood still, a black silhouette weaving from left to right, forward and back before the image could become a whole. A knife shone in the darkness. Paralysis shot across Gren’s limbs, urgency rushing to his head as the man's eyes held his own. Grey slits. Lifeless. A dead man. Gren could taste fear welling up in his mouth, escaped in one ragged breath he barely. Darkness. The darkness he could not see. He closed his eyes. He heard himself whimper.

The man straightened, the knife he had pulled out sliding back into its holster. Gren opened his eyes, his breath coming back to him. His limbs tingled, muscles releasing the paralysis in one long shudder, his eyes turning to see as a scorpion scattered from the wall of hard, blackened sand. Slit in two. Its body crackled as it fell. Gren stared at it. Black body, glistening abdomen, lifeless eyes. Gren turned towards the man, thankful gibberish rising to his head, but the man had walked away from him. Giddy with adrenaline, Gren felt another smile crawl across his lips. The music box still lay in his palm, and he turned the handle. “Julia” tinkled softly to itself, spinning out towards the sky. Gren placed his hand over it and sighed. Breath across his body.

As he stood up, his legs trembled.

“Watch it, buddy,” a soldier called out. “Go easy on th'drink, eh?”

Laughter rose up after his words, but Gren heard it as if from far away, echoing to itself. He slid the music box into the pocket of his uniform and placed one hand over it.

“You fucking faggot!”

The kick came to his stomach, a steel laced boot. White flashes of pain shot out through every nerve end, crashing into one another as another kick was aimed at his back. He heard something pop, but he couldn't tell where his limbs began or ended. His body had shrunk into itself, arms clasped over his head, legs lost beyond his hips. A blow connected with his head, and he heard somebody scream.

“Saw you lookin’ at that damn pale ghost, you arsehole. Like ‘im, huh? Think he's cute? Think I'm cute? Do ya? Mother fucker?!”

The blows melted into each other. Head. Hands. Legs. Stomach. Back. He tasted blood in his mouth, saliva spitting itself out onto the sand. He couldn't see. White flashed and crumpled into blue and red. Bombs. Going off one after the other.

“Fuckin’ sissy dick sucking homo boy!”

It was Billy, wasn't it? A steel toed boot. A silver rifle. He gripped his head tighter and coiled into himself. The pain was spiralling into transparent, pilling on top of itself. Hands gripped his legs and arms and he heard himself cry out. Billy held the rifle in his hand, bringing it down between his legs. Red shot towards his eyes, nausea flowing towards his mouth. He felt the world spin, smashing his head against the pavement as the rifle rose and fell and he heard himself scream, saw himself as they held him down and crowded around him. Fists. Knuckles. Boots. Cracked. Bleeding. Crying. He could barely make out his words.

Stop hitting me... stop... hitting... sto...p... st...

“You're sick, pretty boy. Fucking sick.”

Spit splattered into his mouth. Yellow spit. Urine. He gagged and threw his head back, the nausea surfacing as he spasmed and reached out. Hands gripped his and tore at his sockets. Like paper. Split in half. Every nerve end shooting upwards in a spiral of red and yellow and white and exploding in his eyes. Billy took his head between his hands and leaned forward and bared his teeth and ripped into him. Tore him limb from limb. Sank his fingers into his flesh and howled with laughter.

“I think we made this cock licking homo come.”

“I think I'm going to be sick.”

Sid set his lips in a thin line, working quickly as Gren’s head lolled from side to side. The boy was smiling, his lips curling upward as his eyes crinkled close. Sid cursed under his breath, ripping white court plaster with his teeth. He dressed Gren’s wounds in silence, holding the younger man's head up with his knee.

“Don't slip out on me, man. Ya hold on, ya hear? Can ya hear me?”

Gren gazed into the darkness. He could hear Sid's voice, could feel the court plaster as it was wrapped around his wounds. He was afraid of moving, of discovering that something was broken. His mouth tasted like blood, heady and metallic. He gripped Sid's arm, his fingers sliding off the man's skin. He heard his words echo in his head, but he couldn't be sure if Sid could hear him.

They didn't take the music box...? Did they...? They didn't break my fingers...?

He closed his eyes. Sid had propped him up against his right leg and he felt his body sag against it. His fingers curled into the sand, trailing towards his uniform pocket, searching. Reaching out towards darkness.

The bombs wailed behind him, the impact rumbling across his bones. He stood with his back to the wall, waiting. Soldiers ran by, boots thumping over the hard packed sand. They didn't see him, merely ran forward. Nobody saw the bruises that lined his face, the cuts above his temple and lips, the limp with which he walked. He didn't want to see it either. He clutched his rifle closer. Cold steel. A man's tool. Not a saxophone, not Sandy smiling at him across the smoke of the Hi-Hat, eyes glistening in that goddamned beautiful, lying face. A rifle could never be a saxophone. Never. He gripped it harder, his fingers biting into the groves and dips, cold metal pressing against his flesh.

Billy ran past, his backpack bouncing against his back. His eyes were glazed, his lips drawn back in a snarl. “They're fuckin’ breaking through!” he yelled, laughter bubbling into his eyes. He seemed to move in slow motion, snatches of red coming into Gren’s vision and melting into his retina. They melted into the piss yellow sky of Titan and pulled Gren behind them, holding him at gun point. Billy's silvery gun flashed in the darkness, ripping through the red, and Billy had rushed past him and into the darkness, scrambling across the mouth of the ditch to be the first to shoot down an enemy soldier.

Gren wanted to laugh. He clutched his weapon tighter and pressed against the wall. Sid rushed past, his right eye buried under a clog of blood.
“Move man!” he yelled, before he was swallowed by the next wave of soldiers. Rushing forward near the end of the line was the man with the white hair and the lifeless eyes. Gren saw him and pressed harder against the wall, his lips frozen in a grotesque smile. The man seemed suspended, standing between the darkness and the stark yellow sky of the moon. His eyes held Gren’s as he rushed past, reached out without a word and pinned him against the wall. Gren heard himself whimper. He clutched the gun harder. Harder.

The last line of soldiers had rushed past. Their footsteps thundered away up the incline, shouts mingling with the wail of the bombs. Above him stood the man with the lifeless eyes. He looked down at Gren.

“Move, Gren,” he said.

A explosion spasmed to the left, and Gren tightened his grip over his rifle. The man had turned to rush behind the others. His body stood against the sky, a slim, tapered figure. Gren followed the flow of his legs, tapered limbs shooting out into long, white fingers. Artist's hands. He could almost sense the body that lay beneath the turban and the uniform. A beautiful body.

Gren released his grip on the rifle. His hand reached towards the pocket of his uniform. His fingers wrapped around the music box. He could taste blood in his mouth. Blood and metal. He pulled the music box from his pocket and brought it to his lips.

“Move, Gren,” he murmured. “Just move, damn you.”

You got band mate?

> The title of this story comes from the Charlie Parker tune "Jumping with Symphony Sid," which also gave the character of Sid his name. This story is dedicated warmly to our good friend Pongo, and to all the members of the Ay Muchachos Gay Club, for standing tall and proud in the face of hatred and misunderstanding.

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© April 14th-27th, 2000, listening to The Boom and the OP & ED Themes for Cowboy Bebop (including the wonderfully melancholic "Blue") and Night Walkers (a great song, "Gessekai" by Buck-Tick).