Dead Men Don't Disco

by Michael Campling

  For a full second no one made a sound, then Zeb brought his palms together with a single loud clap, prompting the other officers to do the same. Stanch’s smile broadened. Andelian applause was always brief, but it was also very rare, and pride swelled his chest.

  “Well done, sir,” Zeb said. “Whatever the task, we’ll rise to the challenge. We won’t let you down.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Stanch replied, buoyed up by the atmosphere on the bridge, “because we are to host a series of high-level talks between a group of senior Andel-Kreit officers and a delegation from the Gloabons. The Andel-Kreit High Command will be represented by Lord Pelligrew himself.”

  “Oh, flek!” Zeb muttered. “We’re screwed.”

  “Zeb!” Stanch snapped.

  Zeb dipped his chin. “Apologies at my outburst, Captain, but if these talks go ahead as planned, my situational analysis predicts a ninety-seven percent chance of failure. The Gloabons are slaves to protocol, and they will have been disturbed by Admiral Norph’s flagrant misuse of power. Inviting them aboard the ship where Norph hatched his plans and then facing them with Lord Pelligrew will…” Zeb’s lips moved silently for a moment. “It will be like shaking a sack full of screech hawks. One way or another, somebody’s going to get their eyes pecked out.”

  “Then we’ll have to take full advantage of our three percent chance of success.” Stanch jutted his jaw. “A lot is riding on these talks, and we won’t be the ones to mess them up.”

  “With respect, that’s not quite what I said,” Zeb replied. “The talks have a ninety-seven percent chance of failure, but there’s a two point eight percent chance that they’ll result in interplanetary war. My algorithms have allocated the remaining zero point two percent to the possibility that this sector of the galaxy will be annihilated entirely.”

  Stanch bridled. “Hold your tongue, Mister. You’re out of line. You’ve been through a lot, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, but be warned–we’ll have no defeatist talk on this ship.”

  “As you wish, Captain. Technically, I don’t have a tongue, but I’ll have Chief Engineer Dex check the configuration of my vocalization modules at the end of my shift.”

  “No, you’d better see to that immediately,” Stanch said. “It might take Dex a while to fix you up, and we can’t have you cursing in front of Lord Pelligrew, or the Gloabons for that matter.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Zeb made to leave his station then hesitated. “But, Captain, surely the meeting will be for higher ranking officers only. I won’t be attending, will I?”

  “On the contrary, Zeb,” Stanch said with a smile. “The way you dealt with Norph impressed Lord Pelligrew. He mentioned your courage and quick thinking, and he made a point of requesting your presence at all the meetings. He believes that your capabilities will impress the Gloabons. Remember, whatever you might think of them, the Gloabons value advanced technology above almost everything else, and you represent the height of our scientific achievements.”

  “Oh, shim!” Zeb’s hand flew to cover his mouth. “I’m sorry, Captain, that slipped out, I—”

  “Just go and see Dex,” Stanch interrupted. “And when he’s done with your adjustments, have him meet me on the bridge. We have some environmental changes we need to make for our Gloabon guests, and I need to pick his brains.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Zeb snapped to attention and then hurried from the bridge, his head down.

  Give me strength, Stanch thought. Are we really doomed to failure? He took the captain’s seat and ran his hands over the control panels built into the armrests. He checked the ship’s status out of habit, but his mind scarcely registered the data. For many years, he’d dreamed of taking this seat, of taking command of The Skull, one of the most powerful ships in the Andel-Kreit fleet. And he knew that others in the crew revered this ship as much as he did. Perhaps that was why Norph had been able to sweep them all up in his insane scheme: they’d believed in The Skull. They’d seen it as a symbol of something that went beyond the sleek curves of its hull. Now, he had the captain’s chair, but at what cost?

  Stanch sat back, his gaze roving over the officers, his officers. They would look to him for leadership, so his doubts and fears must not be allowed to surface. He must remain calm and in control; he owed the crew that much. But how would he steer them through this almost impossible task?

  There’s only one problem with Zeb’s analysis, he thought. It’s correct. The two sides in these talks had always been at loggerheads, but thanks to Norph, the Andel-Kreit Coalition had lost face in front of the Gloabons, and that would not be allowed to stand. For their part, the Gloabons had always looked down on the Andelians and Kreitians alike, seeing both races as primitive savages. Now, thanks to Norph’s brutality, their prejudices had been confirmed.

  We have less chance than a butterfly in an orchid patch, Stanch told himself, and the image stayed fixed in his mind: a jeweled butterfly flapping its six wings pitifully as a scarlet blood blossom closed its deadly petals around the creature’s struggling form. The analogy was apt. He’d been drawn toward the sweet nectar of command, but unless he was swift, the machinery of the galaxy’s two great powers would draw him into their schemes and devour him whole.

  They stand on the brink of war, Stanch thought. But what will it take to make them step back from the precipice?

  The mellow tones of the comms officer, Ensign Chudley, snapped him from his reverie. “Captain, I have an incoming message from Lord Pelligrew’s adjutant, Captain Dunworthy. He sends his regards and asks if we have a supply of Brahmian liquor aboard.”

  “Tell him, no,” Stanch replied quickly, and under his breath, he added, “Thank the gods.” The Brahmian drink was mildly toxic to Andelians, but he’d heard plenty of stories of what it did to the Gloabons, and the thought of trying to keep order with a bunch of inebriated aliens aboard sent a shudder down his spine.

  “Relaying that, sir,” Chudley said. She paused. “Captain Dunworthy says not to worry–he’ll bring a case with him.”

  Stanch pressed his fingertips against his temples, his talons digging into his tough skin. “Thank you,” he said to Chudley. He stood stiffly. “I have some plans to make. When Dex arrives, send him through to the XO.” He headed for the door. Lieutenant Grulb, the ship’s counselor, tried to catch his eye, but Stanch ignored him. When these talks were over, he’d see the counselor every day for at least a month, but until then, if there was one thing he couldn’t afford to have, it was a sense of perspective.

  CHAPTER 3

  Earth

  Jerry Martellini shouldered his way through the crowd in Bar 24, not caring too much who he shoved and ignoring the few hostile glances he attracted. Jerry might be out of shape, but he was solidly built, and his years as a newspaperman had given him the kind of face that made most folks think twice before arguing with him.

  The bartender sized him up instantly. “Beer?”

  “Sure,” Jerry replied. “But only if it’s the real thing. I can’t stomach that synthetic shit.”

  The barman pursed his lips. “I keep a few on hand, you know, for the regulars.”

  “All right,” Jerry groaned, “I’ll pay the extra. Just give me the damned beer.”

  “Certainly,” the barman replied, pulling a brown bottle from beneath the counter and flipping the cap. “That’ll be a straight ten credits.”

  Jerry bit back a few harsh words and pulled out his roll of crumpled cash, peeling off a ten credit note and tossing it onto the bar. But as the barman reached out to take it, Jerry slammed his hand down on the note and leaned close, lowering his voice. “I’ve got a fifty here for anyone who can tell me where I might find the scarf I left in a booth last Tuesday, and another two hundred if I was never here.”

  The barman’s eyes slid from side to side. “Sure. Your scarf is with the lady in the back of the room. Last booth on the right. And, now you come to mention it, I have a lousy memory for faces. Call it three hundred and maybe I can�
�t recall your lady friend either.”

  “Don’t push your luck,” Jerry growled, pulling a bundle of credits from his roll and sliding the notes across the bar. “Trust me, that particular lady is someone you do not want to antagonize. Try putting the squeeze on her, and it’ll take more than a good set of dental records to identify your body, understand?”

  The bartender affected a smirk, but there was no concealing the glimmer of fear in his eyes. Job done, Jerry told himself, and scooping up the bottle, he headed for the back of the room.

  It was quieter in the back, and the lights were low. Most of the small booths were occupied, but Jerry made a point of not looking inside. He wouldn’t be the only one taking care of business in Bar 24 tonight, and though his reporter’s nose itched to be thrust into each and every booth, he couldn’t afford to attract attention. So he kept his gaze low, entering the silent pact of the invisible underclass, seeing and hearing nothing until he reached the last booth on the right.

  The booth’s only occupant was wearing a long, black coat, the thick material concealing her shape to the point where she could easily be mistaken for a man. The coat’s broad collar was upturned, and the wide brim of her charcoal gray hat threw her face into shadow, the combined effect sending a chill to race down Jerry’s spine. If it weren’t for the paisley patterned silk scarf draped on the table, Jerry would’ve turned away and kept walking. But this was the signal. This had to be her. There was no backing down now.

  Staying at arm’s length, Jerry said, “Excuse me, is that the scarf I left behind last Tuesday?”

  The woman nodded just once. “Sit down,” she purred. “I’ll be happy to return it to you. You mentioned a reward.”

  “That’s right.” Feeling clumsy, Jerry slid onto the seat facing the woman and placed his beer on the table. “I have the reward right here.” He reached for his coat pocket, but the woman’s hand shot out, her long fingers clamping around his wrist, her grip like iron. “Jesus Christ!” Jerry breathed, his words catching in his throat. He stared at the hand that held him tight, his eyes bulging. “You’re…you’re…”

  The woman leaned forward, her glittering eyes catching the light and gleaming with an ice-cold ferocity. “That’s right,” she whispered. “I’m a Gloabon.”

  “But…” Jerry murmured, and though a host of tough questions flew into his mind, he pushed them all aside; sometimes it was good to upset the apple cart, but not when you were trying to buy a bag of Granny Smiths.

  The Gloabon tilted back her head a little, letting the dim overhead light fall on her face. “What’s up? Never seen a Gloabon up close and impersonal.”

  “You mean up close and personal,” Jerry blurted, his lips letting the words fly before his brain could stop them.

  “I meant exactly what I said.” The Gloabon released his wrist and sat back, but her eyes never left his. “Now, before you make a clumsy handover in full view, tell me where the reward is. Is it in your coat or your jacket?”

  “My coat. Inside pocket. On the left–my left, that is.”

  “Good. Make yourself comfortable. Slip your coat off casually and lay it on the floor beneath the table.”

  Jerry frowned. “It’ll get filthy. Can’t I just–”

  “No,” the Gloabon interrupted. “Do as I say, and all will be well.”

  “Fine.” Jerry did as he was told, and the Gloabon shifted her position slightly as if crossing her legs. Jerry didn’t see how she did it, but suddenly, she was looking at something in the palm of her hand, and he could make out the clear plastic of the small bottle he had brought for her, its label uppermost.

  She looked up sharply. “These aren’t the ones I asked for. The deal’s off. And you’re a dead man.”

  “Wait!” Jerry protested. “These are new—the latest thing. I got them from a pharmacist. It’s all legit. You can check it out.”

  The Gloabon let out a whispered hiss of anger, but she pulled a handset from her pocket and tapped something onto the screen with her thumb. “How do I know that these will even work?” she muttered. “Are they Earth meds or Gloabon?”

  “The pharmacist said they’re Gloabon manufactured. Just like you asked.”

  “Then they’ll work.” She finished tapping on her handset and glanced at the screen. “And fortunately for you, you were telling the truth.” She pocketed the bottle with a deft movement of her hand that was so swift, Jerry wasn’t even sure if he’d seen it. “The information you want is hidden inside the scarf. There’s a memory pod. Encrypted. I’ll send the decryption key to your handset when we’re both safely out of here. If I walk out and find the cops waiting for me, you’ll get nothing.”

  Jerry licked his dry lips as he laid his hand gently on the scarf. He couldn’t feel anything inside the fabric, but that meant nothing; memory pods could be tiny. And anyway, he wasn’t about to cast aspersions on the Gloabon’s integrity; all he really wanted now was to go home and pour himself a very large drink. And then another. “I understand. I’ll give you my number.”

  “I have it already.” The Gloabon raised her hand and pushed the brim of her hat upward a little, revealing her smooth, green skin, her wide, dark eyes. “I have your address, your bank details, your medical history, everything. Make one false move, do even the slightest thing to upset me, and I won’t just kill you, I’ll wipe you off the face of the Earth.” She paused. “And by the way, you might want to pick up some milk on your way home–the stuff in your refrigerator will be sour in the morning.”

  “Right. Okay.” Jerry took a steadying breath. “Listen, you needn’t be concerned about anything I might do,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “If this information is as good as you say it is, the only one who’ll have to worry is Mayor Enderley. He’s going to get what’s coming to him.”

  “Good.” The Gloabon bared her teeth in a chilling smile. “There’s enough material in that pod to sink a whole army of corrupt politicians, and then some. Actually, if you put your mind to it, you could probably throw your entire system of government into permanent chaos.” She made a low noise that Jerry hoped was some kind of chuckle.

  “I guess I should be going,” Jerry said. “Thanks for everything. And I hope the pills help with…whatever it is you’ve got.”

  “Yes, you can go,” she said airily. “I’ll try not to be hurt by the enthusiasm with which you take your leave.”

  “Right. Goodnight.” Jerry started to slide across the seat, but there it was again: the hand that came out of nowhere, the same vice-like grip on his arm.

  “Before you rush off, Jerry, there’s something I want to give you.”

  Sweat prickled Jerry’s brow. “Really, there’s no need. I have this.” Jerry stuffed the scarf into his jacket pocket.

  “Your coat,” she said smoothly, letting go of his arm with one hand while passing him his coat with the other.

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Jerry took the coat, squeezing his fingers tight on the cloth to keep them from trembling. What the hell is wrong with me? he asked himself. He’d faced down powerful people all through his career, but there was something about this Gloabon that had pierced his skin like a poisoned dart. He stood, his legs unsteady, and on an impulse, he grabbed the bottle of beer, taking a long drink, gulping it down.

  “Seriously though,” the Gloabon said, “I’ve decided to give you something. A parting gift.”

  Jerry took the bottle from his lips. His gut told him to turn and run for his life, but he stared into the Gloabon’s eyes, transfixed by her implacable gaze, and despite himself, he said, “What?”

  “I’m going to tell you my name,” she murmured, her velvety voice little more than a whisper. “You see, I want you to remember me.” She stood smoothly, with the grace of a ballerina, and Jerry realized that she was tall: taller than him by a head’s height. She faced him, standing close, her body almost touching his, and said, “My name is Surrana. You will remember that, won’t you, Jerry?”

  Jerry looked up at
her. “Yes,” he managed to say. “Yes, of course, I will. Cyrano–”

  “Shush!” Her finger was suddenly on his lips. “Don’t do that, Jerry. Do not confuse me with a fictitious Frenchman, or this evening will end badly for you. Men have died for less, and also, as it happens, for making exactly that mistake.”

  “I…I don’t speak French,” Jerry offered as soon as Surrana removed her finger from his mouth. “I’m sorry…I don’t understand.”

  “Pity,” Surrana said. “At this point, I usually say that a pessimist is a man who tells the truth prematurely, and then we get to the fun part. But you’re lucky, Jerry.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, because I believe in you, if you can credit such a thing.” Surrana took a small step back, looking him up and down as though assessing his height and weight for a noose. “I know you can bring Enderley down, and I want that to happen as much as you do.”

  Jerry’s curiosity had been cooling its heels for long enough, and now, it went into overdrive, riding roughshod over his instinct for self-preservation. “Why? What did he do to you?”

  “This.” Surrana’s hands went to her coat, to the buttons at her throat. Slowly, she undid them one by one, revealing her neck, her collarbone, the sleek skin above her breasts.

  Jerry’s eyes were round with fear, but he couldn’t look away. Most of Surrana’s skin was soft and smooth, a delicate shade of jade green. But there were unsightly, pale patches, dry and blistered, the skin flaking, peeling away in translucent tatters. “Stop!” he whispered. “For the love of God. People will see.”