Dead Men Don't Disco

by Michael Campling

  Vince looked to Rawlgeeb. “What do you say? You know the mayor. Do you think we could’ve gotten ourselves into trouble just because we worked for him?”

  Rawlgeeb brushed the sugar from his jaw before mashing his lips together. “Whatever the mayor’s been up to, I don’t see how we could be implicated. We did nothing wrong. At the time, I made a full report to my superiors on The Gamulon, and the UN were satisfied that we were blameless. I don’t see what, or who, we should be afraid of.”

  “How about her?” Brent demanded, his arm shooting out to point across the room.

  Vince turned to look. “Not this again, Brent. I told you, she’s a nun. Forget about–”

  But Vince never completed his sentence.

  The nun rose swiftly to her feet, her hands flying with alarming speed over her face, her fingers plucking nimbly at her forehead. Her cheeks crumpled as she tore at the flesh, her features morphing into nothing more than a sagging sheet of synthetic skin, and when she ripped away the last tatters of her mask, she revealed a face that was as smooth as polished jade, and just as green.

  Vince and Brent were frozen in their seats, but Rawlgeeb was on his feet, facing the apparition, his shoulders back. “Surrana!” he yelled. “Oh yes, I know your name!”

  The Gloabon assassin shrugged herself free of her habit, standing proudly before them, dressed in a sleek, purple jumpsuit, the fabric clinging tightly to her curves. And as she raised a gleaming parton pistol, all hell broke loose.

  A shrill chorus of cries, shrieks, and yells of alarm filled the air as almost everyone in the coffee shop raced toward the door. Brent, Vince, and Rawlgeeb were trapped against the wall, and only two other customers remained. In a secluded corner, a pair of young men still slouched on a sofa, their ears encased in outsize headphones, and their attention focused entirely on their handsets. Their only movement was to bob their heads gently back and forth in time to some rhythm that only they could hear.

  But Surrana paid no heed to the chaos she’d unleashed. Instead, she focused her attention entirely on Rawlgeeb, her eyes locked on his with the ruthless precision of an industrial laser. “I come to claim my right of revenge,” she snarled, baring her pointed teeth. “Prepare to die.”

  “With pleasure.” Rawlgeeb snatched up the cups from in front of Brent and Vince. “As custom permits, I claim my dying wish and take a drink.” Downing Brent’s ristretto in one, his whole body shuddered, and when he dropped the empty cup, his pupils had shrunk to the size of pinpricks.

  “By all means, have both of your repulsive Earth concoctions,” Surrana sneered. “I have time aplenty.”

  But Rawlgeeb shook his head. “This one is for you!” Without hesitation, he flung the hot liquid into Surrana’s face, and she howled in pain, spluttering as she recoiled, her hands scraping ineffectually at her cheeks. And then Rawlgeeb was on her, their bodies colliding. They fell together, crashing into a table, the combined weight of their dense Gloabon bones crashing through the splintering wood. Surrana raised her weapon, but the sight of the gun galvanized Vince into action, and he dived headlong into the fray, grabbing her arm and slamming it against the floor.

  Surrana fired, a glittering ray cutting a swathe through the furniture. Smoke billowed from the scorched remnants of tables and chairs, and an alarm sang out a warbling warning, the sound followed a split second later by jets of water spraying down from the sprinklers overhead. Despite Rawlgeeb’s valiant efforts to pin her, Surrana squirmed free from his grip, and still lying on the floor, she lashed out at Vince, kicking and punching him with all her might. “Get off me, you filthy human!” she screamed. “Gagh! It’s starting!”

  Surrana froze, staring upward, her eyes bulging, and Brent seized his chance, lunging forward to kick the weapon from her hand. When Brent struck, the pistol’s beam carved a gouge along the wall, slicing through potted palms and vaporizing a row of twenty-first-century mobile phones that had been artfully displayed along a glass shelf. But then the weapon flew free, landing with a sharp crack and spinning harmlessly across the floor.

  “Hold her!” Brent called out triumphantly. “We’ve got her beat.”

  But he’d spoken too soon. Her body writhing sinuously, Surrana slipped free from her opponents as easily as if they were small children, then in a display of agility that left Brent staring speechless, she sprang from the floor like a scalded cat.

  Vince and Rawlgeeb scrambled to their feet, but before they could regain their balance, Surrana took off, running toward the door, one hand clutching at her throat, the other tearing at her clothes. Shrieking like a wounded hyena, she vaulted lightly over the wreckage, battered the door aside then charged outside, her screams fading as she vanished from view.

  And now, the pair of young men on the sofa finally looked up from their handsets, staring at the streams of spray pouring down from above. They shared a look, their eyebrows raised, then they shrugged, gathered their things and trudged reluctantly from the premises without a backward glance.

  “I bet those guys never even left a tip,” Brent muttered darkly. “I hate it when kids treat the place like a library and sit there all day hogging the best spots.”

  “I just hope they had Gloabon-built laptops,” Vince said with feeling. “No one knows waterproofing like our green friends.”

  Brent made a show of looking at the ceiling. “Is there a concealed camera in here or something?”

  “I don’t know,” Vince replied.

  “In that case, let’s drop the message from our sponsors and get the hell out of this train wreck.” Brent kicked a chunk of broken furniture out of his way. “And the worst of it is, I didn’t even get to drink my damned coffee.”

  “We can go back to the office and dry out,” Vince said. “We still have the pot I made earlier.”

  “All right.” Vince dug his hands into his coat pockets, then he shot Rawlgeeb an appraising look. “That was some show you put on. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Rawlgeeb grunted. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have dared to try. I wouldn’t have stood a chance. But didn’t you see her throat?”

  “No, my attention was drawn by the artistic way she was waving that parton pistol in my general direction,” Brent replied. “Why? Was she wearing a fancy assassin’s amulet or something?”

  “No. But she…” Rawlgeeb shuddered. “She has the plague.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Brent said hopefully. “She has a case of the black death?”

  “Of course not,” Rawlgeeb said. “But any fool could see that she’s suffering from an advanced case of glyphoform necrosis. The bacteria in her skin are dying.” He looked from Brent to Vince, frowning as if frustrated at their confusion. “She has a nasty skin disease, and it made her vulnerable. Usually, a Gloabon assassin would be almost impervious to pain, but in her condition, the hot liquid must’ve hurt like hell.”

  “Lucky for us,” Brent replied. “And well done for spotting it, Rawlgeeb. You may have thrown out our coffee, but you sure as hell saved our bacon. Good work.”

  “Yeah, thanks, dude,” Vince said. “Was that a Gom Hafir? Did you get all fired up by a Gloabon blood rage?”

  “No,” Rawlgeeb replied, helping himself to the last doughnut. “She just really pissed me off.” He raised the sodden doughnut to his lips, sugary water trickling from his fingers. “On the plus side, with all that caffeine in my system, I guess I should be okay to eat this without falling asleep.”

  “Rawlgeeb,” Brent said, “we’ll make an investigator out of you yet.”

  The trio headed for the door. Outside, it was raining heavily, and most people hurried along the sidewalk, hugging their coats tightly to their bodies as they ran. But Brent and his partners took their time. They had no reason to rush. No reason whatsoever.

  CHAPTER 6

  Aboard The Kreltonian Skull – Andromeda Class Battle Cruiser

  Official Status: Assigned to Andel-Kreit Coalition Fleet.

  Ship’s Log: Earth
Orbit – On Diplomatic Duty.

  In the ship’s conference room, Chief Engineer Dex stared at a sleek metal box in the center of the long alloy table. Sighing, he raked his talons across the wrinkled, scaly skin of his forehead, then he turned to Zeb. “Are you sure you haven’t been messing about with the universal translator? It’s taking forever to boot up.”

  Zeb’s lips twitched for a moment before he answered. “No, Lieutenant Commander. Why would you say such a thing?”

  Dex narrowed his eyes. “Come on now, you can’t fool me. I know what you did to all the toasters in the galley.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Switching them all permanently to bagel mode,” Dex went on. “Very childish.”

  Zeb tilted his head to one side. “Perhaps the chefs were merely saving energy by only toasting one side of their skunk bread. I find that commendable.”

  “Don’t try my patience, Zeb.” Dex folded his arms. “And what about the random temperatures in the sand showers? One minute they run hot enough to take the scales off a razor-backed aardvark, but if anyone touches the dials, the damned things suddenly turn colder than an ice squid’s armpits.”

  “You can’t blame me for that,” Zeb insisted. “It’s a well-known phenomenon across the galaxy as explained in Shredbonger’s famous cat experiment.” Zeb raised his finger. “Any given shower is both too hot and too cold simultaneously until the moment a cat is thrown into it, at which point, and no matter what the measurable temperature may be, the cat is extremely annoyed.”

  “I know my quantum mechanics,” Dex protested, “but I also know this ship better than any two other officers put together, and someone has been tampering with the showers.”

  Zeb pouted. “All right, it was me. But I had a good reason, honest.” He held out his hands. “I knew you were working on the environmental controls for the Gloabon visit, and I thought I’d help.”

  “I knew it,” Dex said. “But, Zeb, the Gloabons don’t use sand showers. I think they wash with water, but it doesn’t really matter because they’re coming over here for talks not beauty treatment. And anyway, they won’t be staying overnight.” He broke off suddenly, his hand clasped against his chest. “Wait. Do you know something I don’t? Has there been a change of plan? Oh hell! They’re not staying overnight, are they? Please, say they’re not staying.”

  Zeb hesitated. “Well…now that you mention it…”

  “Oh flek!” Dex roared. “A visit was bad enough, but this! Are they really staying? How many of them? And how long for?” He scraped his hand down his face. “There are no empty cabins. Where are they going to sleep?”

  “I believe that Captain Stanch has arranged for the Gloabon delegation to use Admiral Norph’s stateroom.” Zeb tugged at the collar of his tunic. “I knew you were busy in here, so I tried to fix up the environmental controls in the stateroom myself. I didn’t mean to affect the whole ship.”

  For three seconds, Dex stared at Zeb in silence. Then he exhaled loudly, puffing out his cheeks. “I Understand, Zeb. You were only trying to help. Forgive me. It’s this visit–it’s got me on edge.”

  “If I might make an observation,” Zeb began, “the Andel-Kreit Coalition have been at peace with the Gloabon Government for five years, and yet this diplomatic visit is causing you to exhibit signs of stress and anxiety.”

  “Really? Do you think?” Dex snapped. “What gave it away?”

  “Your speech patterns are one indicator,” Zeb replied. “The other is that you picked up a screwdriver without noticing, and you seem to have driven it clean through the table.”

  “Shim!” Dex worked the screwdriver’s handle back and forth then yanked its blade from the gleaming metal table. He brushed his fingers across the ragged gash. “That’ll polish right out. I’ll put some filler in. No one will ever notice.”

  “Now you’re changing the subject. What’s the problem, Dex?”

  “You know what they say, a problem shared is a good way to start a bitter feud,” Dex replied. “But I guess you have a right to know why I’ve been on your case.” He hesitated. “You see, Zeb, I’ve never trusted the Gloabons. I’ve never forgiven them for…for…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s no good. I just don’t like to talk about it.”

  Zeb stepped closer, placing his hands on Dex’s shoulders. “Come on. You can tell me.”

  “All right!” Dex took a long breath. “If you must know, I’ve never forgiven them for Teal Wednesday.”

  Zeb blinked. “Your objection to the Gloabon race is that they initiated a galaxy-wide public holiday?”

  Dex shrugged Zeb’s hands from his shoulders. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. Nobody understands. But seriously, think about it. Teal Wednesday–what does that even mean? Teal. It’s just a random color. A wishy-washy color at that. And we’re all supposed to gather around and sing the Gloabons’ praises and say how grateful we are for every damned thing they’ve given us.” He grimaced. “And it’s right before Klumzel, which ruins the whole thing. Everyone stays at home stuffing their faces and watching vids when they should be out felling a decent tree and stocking up on incendiaries. If I had my way, we wouldn’t have Teal Wednesday at all.”

  “Okay,” Zeb said slowly. “Here’s what we’ll do. Next time Teal Wednesday comes around, we’ll avoid the whole thing. We’ll do something together–just you and me. Hey, we could zing down to some planet and start a really big fire. We’ll call it a dry-run for Klumzel. Maybe we could make our own incendiaries from scratch and see which one burns hottest. We could take a drone with us, and a temperature probe, and do the whole thing properly. How about that?”

  “Really? You’d do that for me?” Dex sniffed. “Well, that would be great, Zeb. Really great. And maybe Lieutenant Turm would like to come along with us. She’s a good sport.”

  “Perfect,” Zeb said. “I’ll ask Mom, er, I mean, I’ll ask the lieutenant later.” He smiled. “It’ll be like old times.”

  Dex’s features rearranged themselves into a tender expression rarely seen on an Andelian, and when he spoke, it was as if he was choking back some deeply held emotion. “Zeb, I know I told you not to, but sometimes, when it’s just you and me, you can…you know.”

  “It’s all right. I know what you’re trying to say.” Zeb tapped the side of his forehead. “If it helps, in here, you’ll always be more than the Chief Engineer.”

  “Thanks.” Dex hesitated. “Sorry, but to be clear. I’d be…?”

  “Dad, of course.” Zeb’s eyes darted from side to side. “Were you expecting me to say something else? Did you think my language modules had broken down again?”

  Dex shook his head. “No. Just making sure that’s all.” He sighed happily. “Anyway, speaking of language, the translator finally booted up. I’d better check it over. Hey, you could help. Say something in Gloabon…something typical like, Excuse me, but these invoices have not been filed in triplicate.”

  “Oh, that’s a bit racist,” Zeb warned.

  “Is it?” Dex waved Zeb’s objections away. “Sounds like exactly the sort of thing they say, that’s all.”

  “At the very least, it’s playing on a species stereotype,” Zeb insisted.

  “All right, you think of something.”

  “Fine, I’ll deliver a standard greeting.” Zeb’s lips moved quickly, pouring forth a stream of fluent Gloabon.

  A row of lights flickered into life on the smooth surface of the translator, and a perfectly modulated Andelian voice rang out: “Good sir, I beg your assistance. My iguana has swallowed a geranium and doth vomit upon my nephew.”

  “No! No! No!” Dex cried out. “That can’t be right! The damned thing is totally screwed. I’m totally screwed. I have to get the translator working before they get here, and…” His voice trailed away, and he stared at Zeb. “What did you actually say? Did you just spout a load of nonsense to yank my chain?”

  Zeb smirked, then he bent double slapping his thighs with both hands. �
�That was a classic! Dex, you are so easy.” Zeb opened his mouth wide in a guffaw that made the servos in his jaw whine in protest. “Iguana! Geranium!”

  “Oh, ha-ha. I suppose all that stuff about stereotypes was to lead me up the garden path. Quite the comedian, aren’t we?” Dex snatched up the screwdriver, brandishing it in the air, its blade glinting in the light. “I think it’s about time you came into the shop for a service. The first thing to get pulled out and replaced is your sense of humor chip.”

  Zeb stopped laughing. “You wouldn’t do that. You’ve always said it’s my sense of humor that makes me more of a rounded individual: more Andelian.”

  “Oh no.” Dex advanced on Zeb, his eyes glittering darkly. “That argument doesn’t do you any favors. Not in this fleet. I’ve met many an officer with absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever. In fact, once you get beyond the rank of captain, anything even hinting at a cheerful disposition is regarded as a barrier to promotion.”

  Zeb backed away, his hands raised to shoulder height. “Come on, Dex. I was only trying to lighten the mood. You wouldn’t really take out my humor chip, would you? Dad?”

  “Just try me,” Dex growled. He reached out for Zeb, but he couldn’t keep the mischievous grin from his expression.

  “You devil!” Zeb blurted. “You’re fooling with me. Ha-ha, you got me that time! I was really worried for a second.”

  “Think I’m kidding, do you? Come here!” Dex lunged at Zeb, and with a whoop, the cybonic science officer darted for the door and disappeared into the corridor.

  Dex stood on the threshold, watching Zeb dash away into the distance. “That’s my boy,” he murmured. “Geranium! Oh well. Break’s over.” Turning on his heel, he marched back to the conference table. He’d learned a few words of Gloabon at the academy, and he wracked his memory for them, trying to recall the pronunciation tips he’d been taught. In halting Gloabon, he said, “Hello, how are you?”

  “This meat is poisoned,” the translator intoned.