Hard core's Arc

Chapter 1 of 7

Hard core wanted one thing: to build the first interstellar punk band and headline the loudest show Clustervoid had ever heard. But no instrument survived Clustervoid. The neon green alien learned that the hard way, on the roof of Dustcoil Flats, when a guitar string snapped in the vacuum and the wood cracked like a dry bone. Hard core held the ruined pieces and swore. Steam hissed from the pipes below. The pressure out here crushed frets and popped bodies apart. Every player knew it. That was why no gig ever happened without a machine to fake the sound. Fake sound was not punk. Fake sound was death. So Hard core climbed down, packed the broken guitar into a battered case, and went looking for the one person left to ask. The instrument shop smelled of oil and old varnish. Behind the counter stood a small alien with a huge domed head and yellow eyes that missed nothing. He was not from Clustervoid. Everyone said he built instruments for players on a hundred worlds, and that he had walked away from all of them. Hard core had heard the name in whispers. Melodius Harmonix. Melodius did not look up. "Broken," he said. "They all break. What makes you think you're different?" Hard core dropped the case on the counter and opened it. "Because I'm not asking you to fix this. I want you to build something that won't." The old alien's eyes moved to the shattered guitar. He picked up a splinter, turned it, and set it down. "Vacuum steals sound. Steam warps the neck. Pressure snaps the strings. You want music where music can't live." He almost smiled. "That's either stupid or the only honest thing anyone's asked me in years." "Both," Hard core said. Melodius studied the neon green face a long moment. Then he pulled a sheet of dark metal from under the counter and let it clang down. "Sealed body. Pressure-fed strings. A neck that flexes instead of cracks. It'll be ugly. It'll be loud." He tapped the metal. "I built beautiful things for cowards. I never built a thing to scream in a vacuum." "Then build it," Hard core said. They worked through the night. Melodius welded the sealed shell. Hard core wound strings meant to hold under crushing pressure. By morning the thing sat on the bench, spiked and battered and covered in stickers, humming faintly. Hard core carried it back to the roof of Dustcoil Flats. The vacuum bit down. The steam hissed. Hard core struck one chord. It held. The sound tore across the flats, raw and real, no machine behind it. Melodius stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "It survives," he said. "Now you have a bigger problem. One guitar isn't a band. And Clustervoid has never heard a real one."