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“Cassette tapes.” Gamora puts down her bag on the store profiteer’s counter. “I have Terran money I can exchange for them!”
The young man puts down his handheld computer. “Terran?”
Gamora says nothing for a moment. If the skin mod she had decided on for this mission were a lighter shade, he would have seen her blush far more clearly. “American money.”
“Cool.” He raises his computer to his face again. “Cassettes are in back. Guy just sold his collection of R&B.”
“Thank you.” She has no idea what that means. Gamora would prefer to be on more familiar ground like the Jackson Five. Looking around, there is far more music in the world than that. Disc cases and flat, square envelopes are filed away in every available corner of the smoke-yellow shop. The walls without shelves are covered in posters, some with half-naked Terran women, others with rude drawings.
In the room where the profiteer indicated, she is relieved to see cassettes of Marvin Gaye. She has no idea who the other tapes are of, however, nor why the room smells strongly of smoked Terran psychoactive leaves that smugglers sometimes bring back to their corner of the galaxy.
The only other person there is a young woman, shorter than her and in very tight, black pants and a leather jacket. She is chewing something. Gamora would guess it was food, but she doesn’t appear to be eating it. Perhaps some Terrans have cuds. She’s pretty sure Peter doesn’t but she hasn’t thought to ask.
“What do you want?” The woman who doesn’t look up from examining a cassette case with “The Benny Goodman Band” written on it.
Ah. Gamora guesses she’s an employee. “I’m looking for tapes for my friend. I wanted to give him a gift, but I don’t know much about music beyond the kind he immediately likes. Is there some Blue Swede here?”
“No idea.” She puts down the case and picks up another with “Gershwin” on it. “What kind of music do you like?”
“Nowadays, I really only listen to what he likes.” She thinks of the Milano filled with the lilting melody of 10cc as Peter cleans the windows, the sailing tones of Elvin Bishop as they prepare to go to bed before a mission. It’s become relaxing. She’s experimented with playing divian omega throat chants, which leaves Rocket and Drax far less enthusiastic than they usually are. She needs to find more music, because what they have so often wears thin when she isn’t in the mood, but she can’t seem to find songs that give her the same reaction as Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky.” It’s so perfect when she needs it.
The woman snorts. “Lord. Is he your boyfriend?”
“Absolutely not. We talked about it.” Suggesting he only liked starry-eyed waifs wasn’t very tactful, but she seems to have gotten her point across. Also, she prefers men who do not strongly associate her with their mothers. And who have Drax’s deltoids though not his personality. “He’s just my friend, really. And he needs more music. What do you recommend?”
She turns toward Gamora, a red eyebrow raised in challenge. It’s eerily familiar to the way Nebula used to look at her when they were on better terms. “I happen to be on the same mission. Platonic man friend needs his man music. You know anything about big band and standards?”
Gamora shakes her head. Another customer, then. “No. What do they play?”
Laughing, she throws up her hands. “Great! Guess we’re on the same page.”
Though Gamora is unsure if it’s allowed, the woman begins to open the cassette cases and play them on what she refers to as a “boom box.” She has no idea who Blue Swede is—certainly not when Gamora attempts a few off-key bars—but she loves the Runaways.
“Joan Jett was one of my heroes when I was into American contraband in the old country,” she says. “It’s embarrassing. ‘Bad Reputation’’s how I get motivated to go to the gym.”
From there, she helps Gamora select 4 Non Blondes, Blondie (no relation, apparently), Donna Summer, and Nina Simone. Gamora has no idea how she’s gone so long listening to Terran music without ever hearing “Sinnerman.” It feels so vital.
They also listen to Queen together, which seems exactly like the sort of thing Peter would play repeatedly until even Groot was too tired dance. The woman, who has wormed her way into Gamora’s interest, calls it “stadium rock.” At some point during the past hour, they decide to sit on the ground together.
“I can’t get Steve to understand why they’re just kind of fun to listen to,” she says. “He doesn’t get the Beatles, either. Maybe you have to grow up with it. It’s silly pop, but it takes you places. At least Sam’s got him into Marvin Gaye and Otis Redding.”
Gamora nods. “Marvin Gaye’s one of my favorites.”
The woman gives her one of his solo tapes. It’s not from the shelves, but from the pocket of her leather jacket. “This is what Steve kept playing in the car on the way over. Even Sam’s getting tired of it. He asked me to conveniently lose it while we were in Waco.”
Smiling, Gamora slips it into her bag. “I think I can get it pretty far away.”
“How far?”
“I’m leaving the country tomorrow.” So to speak. “Are you from far away, too?”
“New York.” The woman looks at Gamora, squinting. “You really don’t recognize me? Because I really thought you were just trying to play it cool.”
Is this a politician? A Terran starlet? Maybe she’s a priestess of some sort for a local religion. “I’m afraid not.”
“Good.” She takes Gamora’s hand and shakes it. “Natasha.”
Doubting she’ll ever see the woman again, Gamora gives her real name and shakes back awkwardly. “New York’s pretty far from here.” She remembers flying over the skyline in her rental pod, realizing she was too low, and heading for cloud cover.
“Business trip. Steve, Sam, and I are investigators.”
“Really? You don’t seem like law enforcement.”
“We definitely aren’t and, yeah, wow, we probably shouldn’t be. Or I shouldn’t be, anyway.” Natasha stands up and wipes the dust off her backside. “But if you see, God, I don’t know, green men and flying saucers, let me know.”
Damn it. She smiles and knows even as she does it that it’s too tight. “Flying saucers?”
“I’m completely serious.” Natasha puts out her hand and it takes Gamora a moment to realize she’s helping her up. “It’s all kind of surreal. The attack on New York changed a lot.”
Gamora is distinctly alarmed. Her flyover wasn’t an attack!
Even the fair-haired gentleman who leans into the back room notices her look of concern. “Nat, what are you telling this poor woman?”
Natasha’s smile is serene. “Reminiscing about those gosh darn aliens those fantastic Avenger folk a few years back! Gee whiz, weren’t they swell?”
Gamora relaxes immediately. If this attack took place a few years ago, it’s of no concern to her. But she sees the man give Natasha a slow, not-very-subtle headshake. Oh. They’re those kinds of investigators, dealing in secrets and, judging by Natasha’s face, code.
“Yeah, yeah, okay, Steve. What are you doing here? What, we heading out soon?” Natasha begins to chew her not-cud again.
“I saw they had records.” He indicates the front of the store. “What do you think about Cole Porter on the way back?”
“Okay, A? We don’t have a record player in the car. B: who?”
“People still know who Cole Porter is.” But Steve looks pleased. It’s the same look Natasha just had while recommending Joan Jett, a cousin of the same look Peter gets when referring to Blue Swede as “his” band.
They commandeer the store profiteer’s “record player.” At the front desk, he looks up maybe once from his computer. Natasha takes the giant, black disk that Steve points to and affixes it to the top, pushing it down the length of the stubby needle. Steve plays “You’re the Top” and “Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love,” which she doesn't like as much, and Gamora realizes they’re both tapping their feet, seemingly ready to dance.
She considers excusing herself. This might be something just for them, even though the music is quite nice.
Natasha says, “Oh, this one!” and puts on a song called, “It’s De-Lovely.”
The opening is slow, but by the time the chorus describes how things are “delightful, delicious, de-lovely,” Gamora is charmed.
Steve nods. “Oh, okay, see, now, this is old. The original one’s pretty awful, but I like this version.”
Gamora does, too. “How do you dance to it?” She shifts her weight from one leg to the other, but the song has a strange glow. It requires something more.
And Steve, who has better deltoids under his shirt than she realized, takes her hand. She is at once very aware of his slender hips, his well-made legs. He looks as surprised as she feels. Still, he puts his other hand on her shoulder, and she mimics him. Then they’re dancing in circles and he’s talking about Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.
“Or Kevin Bacon?” she says, hopeful.
Steve looks a little confused but Natasha laughs as does the man at the door, who they introduce as Sam.
Gamora likes Sam, too, because when they head back to the cassette tapes to find Cole Porter songs, he hands her more Marvin Gaye as well as KC and the Sunshine Band. They listen to “I’m Your Boogie Man” and she loves it. It has the right energy.
“This is perfect.” She gives them the best smile she can manage. “Thank you. "
“Of course, I tend to like the cheesy ones.” Sam looks embarrassed. “Over-the-top, older, overplayed. That stuff.”
“There’s a reason some songs are overplayed,” she says very seriously. “And older is good. I think that means they’re better.”
Sam’s smile widens. Steve, for some reason she knows she’s missing, goes slightly red.
Gamora hurriedly changes the subject. “My friend, Peter, had to line his cassette tapes with sub-polymer so they wouldn’t wear down. He plays them for hours at a time.”
If he doesn’t know what sub-polymer is, Steve doesn’t say anything. “Sounds like a bit much.”
“His mother gave them as a gift before she left him.” Gamora considers her pile of tapes. The man at the front gave her a cardboard box to put them in, which has helped, but she knows the amount won’t matter. “I doubt I’ll find anything to replace that."
“I’m sure you don’t need to.” Steve doesn’t look at her directly but from beneath his blond eyelashes.
Peter’s not the only one with distinguished tastes. Smiling back at him shyly, Gamora says, “You’re very kind.”
Sam and Natasha, obviously and loudly, excuse themselves. Steve looks mad at them but Gamora is entertained. They stare at one another at the back of the shop, dust particles glinting in the light that filters through the small window.
Then Sam calls back. His tone has changed. “Steve, get your shield out of the car.”
Steve apologizes and runs toward the door. Natasha follows close behind, pulling what looks like a very small gun from her jacket.
Out the window, rolling across the blue sky, Gamora recognizes the hideous orange of the Milano. Sam whistles and turns to her when she reaches the shop door. “Probably best to get out of town, now.”
She’s afraid she has to agree.
Gamora throws a couple bills to the profiteer, who appears terribly pleased when the money has a picture of a very plain, long-haired woman on it.
Instead of going back to her rental pod, standing in the street to flag down Peter as he skims the tops of buildings, or even altering her skin mod back to its natural verdigris, she goes to Steve. Natasha has run ahead, yelling into a communication device.
He’s pulling a round, bright shield from his vehicle. Its colors are garish, perhaps purposely so.
“You came her because of them?” She looks toward the Milano.
Steve looks surprised to see her. “It’s our job. We tracked something like that from New York. It could be another invasion. We’ll take care of them.”
Somehow, that hurts. Gamora breathes in. Dance off, she thinks as she puts the box on the ground. If she has anything useful to take from Peter, it will be this.
She grabs Steve’s wrist firmly, as if to flip him, but puts her other hand on his shoulder instead. He sways stiffly with her for a moment before she runs her hand over his cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the ship fly out farther from the town.
He looks uncomfortable but she’s uncomfortable, too, which makes it sort of nice, in a way. They have something in common besides what’s she’s still pretty sure should be referred to as pelvic sorcery.
“I think I should probably take care of this, now.” He looks to the sky.
“Me too.” Gamora backs away, grabs the box, and runs.
She looks back before she reaches the pod in its hiding place, but he hasn’t followed. Peter would have, because he can’t resist women with secrets, has to unpick all the mysteries presented to him, but she isn’t attracted to men like Peter.
She uses the pod’s communicator to radio Rocket, who answers jovially enough. “Enjoying the Earther backwaters?”
He’s as casual as Natasha, another person that Gamora doubts she’ll be able to get to know better. They track her location instantly. Overhead, she hears the roar of engines as the ship closes in on her.
“Very much so,” she says. “I thought we could do with some music.”
Without mentioning Steve and Natasha and Sam, she encourages them to leave Terra immediately.
Peter is pleased beyond reason at their expanded collection. No, it’s not as good as the stuff he listens to, he says, what is? And Joan Jett? Freddie Mercury? Can you really go wrong there? Even Drax admits that he quite enjoys Queen, though he rhapsodizes about the meaning behind the lyrics by the time they’re out by Jupiter. “Why would anyone stop someone from having a good time? Especially when that soul is on a collision course with a satellite?”
Everyone else seems a bit more lukewarm on Cole Porter, but Peter is willing to listen to “It’s De-Lovely” again if Gamora is. He says it makes her look sad, but she just turns it louder.
The End