Celestial Palace: Galactic Band of Renown

By Steven Lance

"Celestial Palace: Galactic Band of Renown" is a delightful journey through the cosmos following the exploits of a band of musicians that play music (shushzia) unlike any other shushzia in the universe.

Travel with band: Siggy Wont, CosmicConcussor player extraordinaire; Twan "Sheer Bliss" Toody, PhilimentPhretster maestro; Wokman Waleed, Synthorgiano genius; Blaydee Dood, best Seismicizer player this side of MultiVerse; and Rocket Oobleekay, RecTech genius.

Enjoy their adventures. Rue their setbacks. Experience new love. And feel the heartbreak of loss. Thrill to their extraterrestrial visitation. Join in their resistance to the fascist order of the Hi-Officiate. Worry over their safety once the Order of the Keepers of Non-Light seek to destroy them to preserve the Dark Forces' parasitic relationship with sentient lifeforms throughout the universe; a paradigm that has been at play since the very origin of this universe.

You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll thoroughly enjoy the trip. Written by a long-time Science Fiction fan deciding to write the story he could not seem to find already written.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667841304

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Boe Boe’s East, no different than any other nightclub, pulses with the glare of lights changing colors every fraction of a second through all hues in rainbow splashes that glimmer off glistening bodies undulating to the music. More women than men. Their fine young forms sinuously swaying in time and highlighting the objects of male attention.

The music is loud. Pounding. Moving through body and mind until one is indistinguishable from the other.

A syncopated half-spoken, half-sung voice pitter-patters verbiage from the street, from the interior lives of every young stewd and zip existing in today’s version of hell; all over an impossibly throbbing groove:

"Night moon… showers primal glimpses…

of questdust too soon shielded from your stare…

As open doorways to a place you can trust…

go unseen…unheard…consumed by sensuous fire’s flare…

Heated angst…Burning yearning…heaping servings…

you feed ‘til full, to bursting."

And then the repeated, fruited, honey chorus We, together, create forever soothes; smooths away any/all friction mingling midst harmonious lead that soars on wings of an angel.

Away from the stage, crowd noise drowns out individual voices except for a fragment here and there; But, she said… Geetchin’ rinklehole! And then he… Shrill laughter from inebriated twenty-something women abounds. Yells from raucous, drugged, drunk and testosteronically enflamed men, punctuate the chaos with throaty threats of violence. Pheromones mix and mingle intoxicating all genders. And the small percentage of actual listeners respond with a standing ovation.

The four-piece band eases in for a landing, the last notes of the final set sounding as echo that reverberates slowly away.

And, as per usual, Twan Toody, front man extraordinaire for this finely polished unit, is approached by an irate spotman asking for more.

Hey, lookit…there are still alotta people here. Whatta ya say one more set?

Twan turns his baby face from the crowd to see what condition the rest of the Boys are in after six sets on this long night’s work.

Here, let me have that thing… says the eponymous balding, fat blob of a man, as he grabs the microphone. Hey, all you zips ‘n’ stewds. You want more? I SAY, DO YOU WANT MORE?!

Boe Boe’s question is answered with a thunderous reply of MORE! MORE! WE WANT MORE!

Twan tries to fully communicate what the Boys in the band are thinking, That REALLY skiffs, sacksucker! How many times have I told you, ‘No extra redits, no extra scursions!’

But they want more, says the red-faced planetoid with smarmy arrogance.

Those stunners don’t know what the geetch th/…

I SAID THEY WANT MORE! SO, PLAY! THAT’S WHAT I PAY YOU FOR! NOT FOR THAT GEETCHIN’ MOUTH OF YOURS!

LISTEN you screamin’ scorcher. You offal eatin’ sack o’/You already got your geetchin’ ‘tract time!

The fat planet gives his best look of disgust, An’ you call yourselves musicians!

This really puts Twan over the edge. Up Uranus you geetchin’ quaghole! NO MORE REDITS. NO MORE SCURSIONS!

The drug crazed crowd goes wild, booing and hissing their displeasure. Boe Boe does not like being cursed at, especially in his own castle, as it were.

Pack it up and get outta here. You’ll never play here again. I don’t need YOUR KIND!

The stuporous crowd, still registering its boisterous displeasure, is now approaching the point of hostility. The impish figure of Twan Toody stands center stage with his straight jet-black hair falling to the exact length of the three inch straight hanging beard running along, but not above, his jawline.

Unmoving in the face of an angered, pound packing spotman spewing abuse and an unruly crowd moving toward the stage, Siggy Wont sees the eyes of his little sync narrow as he launches into new negotiations.

TWAN! NO! Oooohhhh, Boosh!

*  *  *

CHAPTER TWO

Having somehow managed to get their instruments and all the other gear out of the ensuing glommergeetch of bad vibes and more than a few thrown punches, chairs, and sundry items with utilitarian projectile traits, the Boys hit the early morning air exiting via the side service entrance door. They head towards their tank-tread driven Plodder, an ancient bullet van they purchased for hauling their gear. Battered by more than a few brushes with immovable objects because of the gheen-shee condition of whoever was driving, the Plodder was spacious and durable and had truly become a member of the band.

Siggy, says Twan biting his bottom lip. Look, sync, I couldn’t geetchin’ help it. Boe Boe does it all the geetchin’ time.

But now we don’t have a spot. We were there for two more weeks…

Geetch that! I’m sick an’ tired of those skeevy bastoids— every geetchin’ one of ‘em! They all want more scursions. But not ONE GEETCHIN’ Z-BOLT comes across with the redits. Right? Am I right?

Siggy, pulls his waist length blond hair back from his eyes and loops it behind his ears. Deep breath. Sighs. Geetch it…Relax. We’ll find another spot. I mean, we’re the very geetchin’ best, are we not? Yes, we are, thank you very much. We’ll keep on keepin’ on.

Twan bursts a snort of disgust. I don’t know, Siggy…Where is it, sync? We continue to drain our souls, our heads…Well, geetch, those scorchin’ stunners don’t ever get the geetchin’ point. Are we ever gonna break through? You know…bringin’ that light of awareness to the one and all?

Now-a-days, says Siggy, "what passes as music is asses in motion. Thief Jockeys playin’ songs that others recorded are the stars. I mean, what the geetch! Actual players like us? We get the ugotz.

"Sure, we have a solid following who thinks we’re the best unit ever. And don’t forget all those cyber fans; from all over the world. But, you’re right. A goodly portion of them just aren’t listening to our messaging. I mean, it’s gotten so surreal, that mindless jingles become people’s absolute trend tune of choice which means a giant audience has been captivated; just primed for a message that speaks to each and every one of them. Of course, exactly because it’s such a mindless hit, it makes the makers redit-rich by way of a huge, paying following. Units like us? Well, we’ll never be given an audience like that. Units like us have to work hard to even get a chance to make hundreds of millions and even billions of fans.

"Celestial Palace is a top-level act. Not the big time, but making a living. We’re lucky. Most units are stuck playin’ special events and local festivals for nothing. Or, as the spot owners would say, ‘I’m offering you great exposure. You wouldn’t expect me to pay for helping your unit get on the MainRise Circuit playing for big redits, would you?’

Yeah, it’s like there’s a separation wall between the reality of where we’re headed and momzageetchin’ crowd-sourced reality out there. Everybody is too busy bein’ the star of their own reality show. Narcissism run amok. All of them wanna-be stars but too few with any talents whatsoever. So, they flaunt body modifications and styles straight from the garbage can to make them stand out. Yet, just end up lookin’ all the same.

Twan sighs, says So true, sync. So true.

Wokky Waleed, somewhat older, well-rounded in a muscular way, with scruffy Asian beard and eyes the color of night, walks over. A little less talkin’ and a lot more luggin’, momzageetchers! Save your whinin’ for later…

Siggy and Twan can’t help but to smile then laugh at that typical Waleedian pronouncement. They fall in, loading the quip into the Plodder. At first there is quiet. But, soon after, Siggy breaks out laughing. What? ask his uniteers in unison.

Oh, sweet Cheezus! Twan surely did catch ol’ Boe Boe good. I do believe the Moon Man actually bounced when he hit bottom!

They all break out in laughter that can be suppressed only so long before splashing out again and again. Twan, at this moment, no longer wonders if hammering Boe Boe had been worth losing their spot over. They’re syncs, through and through.

Finally loaded and ready to scootch, they pile into the Plodder and engage their routine mind meld wish for the old van to start.

A cough — wheeze — sputter — fires up.

A cheer as the Plodder is put into motion and makes its way out of the alleyway, away from that massive conical structure of silver glare and feeble mindedness. The crystal-clear harmonies of a free-forming Celestial Palace echo through the night:

The odd eons provide blank faces

to impress upon them what is real

Myriad stunners in bliss induced silence

as the redit hungry BoeBoe squeals

And, as they round the corner, through their customary woo haze, the Boys spot their now former employer some ways away walking toward his new, sleek, megaredit cruiser. Without a word, Twan turns in and brakes the Plodder to alongside Boe Boe’s vehicle. All members exit the vehicle and stand four abreast. Siggy yells out to a now hastily moving Boe Boe. We didn’t want to leave without returning what is rightfully yours, Boe Boe…

As the Boys in the band steamily arc their nightly beverage consumption all along the meticulously kept conveyance, the screaming red planet blubber-bounces his way towards them shouting. But what he screams is lost to the Boys’ giggling as they pile back into the Plodder and make a fast get-a-way.

To be sure, there will be much sleepy-eyed hilarity during their morning light trek home.

*  *  *

CHAPTER THREE

Ten cycles ago— the very first time Wokman, Siggy, Blaydee and Twan got together to cross pollinate their musical talents —resulted in a BOUGE! Like exquisite agony, their heads wired by the same Ultimate. The music made that day was enormous, absurdly complex for never having played together before. When the session finally wound down, they had just sat and checked each other out. For hours they had gazed into each other’s soul, probing for accurate assessments.

Eventually, wandawoo made an appearance. Yes, that leafy herb left here by some ancient space traveler long, long ago. After all, you know how musicians are. Of a sudden, four totes of woo, some of it naturally cultivated, some processed down to the very THC essence suspended in tincture or oil, were eagerly being manipulated by eight skillful hands; either rolled for smoking or dosing by dropper or to be vaped via pungent steam.

After having ingested numerous woo sticks-worth, they began to talk. About everything and anything, but one. That they saved for last as if it were ritual. True unbelievable happiness joyously embraced their beings. They told their brief life stories: Twan was the middle son of a Salesman and Realtor mom. Hated school. Loved music and started playing an old-time guitar. He got really good at it. Then, once out and working, he put his redits towards a custom designed, hand-made fretted instrument, a Philiment Phretster is what the genius maker called it; a computerized fretted console. Twan stands inside and it wraps around him; comprised of several fretboards connected to synthesized modules that loop and bend to his will in infinite possibilities. It’s like a blend of several guitars but only much, much more than that replete with different amp/speaker/mic combos.

Wokman Waleed was a child prodigy completely alienated from his parents as they shipped him off to boarding school as soon as they could. Wokky graduated Secondary School at twelve, received his Ph.D. in astrophysics at sixteen, a full professor by the time most kids graduated Two School, and a burnout at 21. That’s when he started playing keyboard. There was one in his rehab facility. He immediately grokked to it and became a virtuoso. Once released, he started to join units and played all the time. Eventually he was able to put a downpayment on the Synthorgiano, a custom-made wrap-around instrument with multi-tiered keyboards, built in rotational speakers and a sound unlike anything on Earth.

Blaydee Dood is the son of a prison guard and librarian mother. Dad and Blaydee never got along. As soon as he was able, Blaydee quit school and started playing in units to make money. He was able to put redits down on a custom-made instrument which he called a Seismicizer, a multiple LFO enhanced standing bass with low notes that can put a building to shake. Blaydee never much talked about his family life but it was obvious that he couldn’t stand any of them, even his sister. His happiest day was when he walked out the door of his family apartment and told them all to geetch off.

As for Siggy, he was a brainiac also. He loved his parents, has five brothers and sisters which he gets along with although he rarely ever sees them since his parents passed away. Siggy did very well in school. Played sports. Was normal in every way until he was introduced to psychedelics and prog fusion music. From that point on, all that was ever on his mind was playing original music that would be so powerful as to mesmerize a world into evolving. Well, that’s been his dream, anyway. He practiced on his monster drum set every day. He finally was able to save enough to purchase a CosmicConcussor a custom designed and handcrafted wrap-around percussion unit that could reproduce any concussive sound one could imagine. During that time of constant improvement, he had begun to supplement his dream of being a force for change by writing and has enjoyed quite a bit of publishing luck. His research has made him something of an expert on human behavior and geopolitics. His research and knowledge have also made him a pessimist just like his band mates. In fact, each of the Boys had been avid readers of Siggy’s regular digitumn [https://vulgariangoulash.blogspot.com/] before they ever even met him.

After each had told the others a little about themselves, Siggy Wont was the first to get down to what was on everybody’s mind. He pulled his waist length hair away from his face, then gently tugged thoughtfully on his unusual blond mustache that followed the curve of his top lip, to the corners of his mouth, before falling straight down past the borders of his face, extending on for another eight inches in an exaggerated Fu Manchu style. His green-blue eyes having a powerful way of holding one’s attention did just that with the group. He stared deeply into the eyes of each of them and said, So, it kind of looks to me that if we can get it seamed, we’ll be the best geetchin’ unit this world will ever hear! We can make a difference. Change the world.

The Boys exulted in amplified merriment of whoops and various strings of obscenities.

Siggy eased his way back into it. I’ve been perkin’ for a good twelve cycles, one unit after the other. My dream is to tell it. I mean, the way we see it is, anyway. In fact, there’s not much choice as we’re probably some of the last few to give a squat. Music is a powerful tool to bring some much-needed love and understanding to this geetched up world. As long as we stay true to a spiritually elevated animating motive, I think we could actually achieve something beyond ourselves. Something lasting.

Wokman, Blaydee and Twan had completely agreed, their heads nodding (with approval, of course). For they knew the score. People had become so addicted to instantaneous meme-sharing jeetsquat that any real knowledge of what was happening in the world was lost to massive amounts of ten second blurbs of hate, or humor or ungrounded opinion. Far beyond the phase of smartphones, stunners with enough redits buy direct access via BTSquared technology derived from HAARP that allows people to communicate with one another brain to brain; telepathy via technology. They’re totally removed from the reality of the rest of the human race which are mired in an unreliable wireless experience. Music has become mindless beats and empty words. Here in America, at least, everyone has a right to their opinions. And because of this Constitutionally protected free speech, everyone thinks that not only do they have a right to their opinions but that their opinions are right. A fatal flaw in critical thinking to be sure.

Wokman Waleed was the next to speak. The mid-thirtyish man, with his bushel crop of gray-black hair looking more wild than usual, shifted his bit of a paunch with the grace of a feline, moving to and fro with manic regularity, his brown eyes moved constantly in paranoid-like side shifting. One wired ol’ fella, for sure.

Yeah…Well…Like…I’m the oldest one here. So, yeah, no, I don’t believe in your philosophical jeetsquat about changin’ the geetchin’ world. Too far gone, syncs. ButIbeenatitalongtime. Playedwithlotsofmusicians. You guys are really good. We can be…We can be great! So, like…like…Let’s DO IT!!

Blaydee Dood had been standing, shifting his tall, weighty frame from one booted foot to the other. His sculpt-tiered, multicolored locks matching his finest stunner garb; at the height of fashion. Blaydee was the kind of stewd who wanted the best of both worlds; the depth of making great music but with the allure of a pop star with all the moist, curvy perks that go along with that lifestyle. Bouncing with nervous anticipation, Blaydee exploded with the strain of unsolicited intercourse.

What a regular scamp camp! Really! We’d be fools if we didn’t get this unit together. Like, the potential is too geetchin’ much, stewds! To sound the way we did?! Doin’ those amazin’ changes?! Havin’ never even set eyes on each other before?! Stewds!

The final member of the jam brigade was Twan Sheer Bliss Toody. He shrugged and said, This is probably the first time in my life that I can say I am happy. Really geetchin’ happy. BOUGE! I look to the sky and say do or die!

Uncontrollable fits of jocularity over the next several hours assured ever stronger bonds. They had made a momentous decision to sync, thereby creating THE UNIT, Celestial Palace. Of course, what would life otherwise have been for humanity’s orphans, those outcast seekers of a better way through use of intelligence and caring? Finding each other as they had, was a definite stroke of luck. And in all probability their only taste this time around if their pasts were any indication.

For these were not your basic Easy Lifers. After all, they had principles, if nothing else. After that first time together, the Boys knew something extraordinary had happened. The next ten cycles saw hours upon hours each and every day spent in sync, growing to empathize to such a degree that they began to know exactly what each would do, when and where. A joint communion of four grossly distorted realities that, when wired in unity, made music unlike any ever before heard.

*  *  *

CHAPTER FOUR

Away from the hectic chaos and total surveillance schemes of any city, out in the wilds as the countryside is now called, early morning, as it always has, seeps into being with soft cool breezes and fresh scents of pine, cedar and other aromatic firs. Birds sing as they greet the day. Nocturnal animals scurry in a hurry to their burrows. And, with the sunrise, makes one glad to be alive. Unfortunately for most humans on the planet, having shifted their living patterns back into urban conglomerates, rarely do they see the sun, the stars or breathe fresh air.

But, out here in these Wilds, there is an abundance of natural goodness. Blaydee, as usual is the first one up. He and his blanket-wrapped turquoise-haired unicle (his zip company last night having made it out to Wild Country to engage in Blaydee’s sexual fantasies; unicle being the Boys’ term for a unit barnacle, a zip attaching herself to the band) are gently rocking in his antique real wood rocker, out on the side porch, the unicle in his lap taking in the morning and copious inhalations off his wong, a water-cooled woo smoker. He pops the flow hole and the dense smoke slips inside him. He holds the sacrament until release can no longer be put off then wooshes an outward-bound cloud of herbal essence once filtered of psychic effect into the waiting mouth of his lovely. He takes a tug of his daily dosage of caffeine. He idly primps his multi-hued stunner-do so that his hair stays out of his mouth and deep tongue-kisses his guest who is quite a bit better looking than most of Blaydee’s take-home yammerstains. You see, Blaydee isn’t one for waiting until a beautiful zip comes along. Big and round, tall and skinny, little people short, and even some real messes, has never mattered. As long as the zip is a zip and willing, Blaydee is game.

Wokky slips through the screen door, lets out a long WooooooHooooooHooooo. Startled birds in a sheet of wing-feathers lift from their perches. Blaydee shakes his head at the disturbance.

Wokky lets out another long WooooooHooooooHoooooo that echoes off into the woods.

This one gets to Blaydee and he falls sway to an uproarious fit of his own woooooohooooohoooooing. The stocky Wokky has not had a very sound repose and so is in an on-edge mood. His bushel of hair seemingly with a mind of its own.

He shouts out to no one Boosh you, you geetchin’ bastoids!

To which Blaydee responds, Yeah, you skeevy gish! Wha’? Now wondering who or what he and Wokky are yelling at.

They look at each other for a moment then both fall into laughter; Wokky gesturing for a hit off the wong.

Siggy saunters out to the porch with his tankard of caffeine, gulps half before asking, What the geetch was that all about?

Wokky takes in a huge column of smoke from the wong, holds the smoke in his lungs while replying, (swhip) Siggy…Really…(swhip) It’s those geetchin’ chirpers, sync. I mean, (swhip) every geetchin’ morning… He exhales it all. (SWHOOOoooooo) I need my geetchin’ rest or else I become/…

Blaydee cuts in with his own interpretation, Shorted out again Wok-kyyyyyy….

Hey, boosh for brains, I do not have to listen to some warped geetchin’ dildonic/…

And there Siggy leaves it, taking a hit off the wong before nodding hello to Blaydee’s guest and returning to inside figuring he’ll see what Twan’s up to. He cuts through the kitchen and hangs a left, sprints two steps at a time up the three-flight staircase, careful not to spill a drop. At the second-floor landing, however he eases to a halt. Not so much to catch his breath, but because he can never resist beauty’s beckoning. A framed vision of life. In the distance, hulking deep blue-purple peaks pierce soft, billowy puffs of white. As far as one can scan, there are trees. Real honest-to-goodness trees of all shapes, sizes and species. Small young saplings