Dead Men Don't Disco

by Michael Campling

  So what was his next move? Think, Jerry! The Gloabon connection had to be at the heart of the story, but he’d start by tracking down the humans and taking it from there. Bolster’s agency was over on Ganymede Street, wasn’t it? Was that where they’d be taking Maisie Richmond? It was getting late in the day, but Jerry had known plenty of private investigators, and not one of them had kept regular office hours. Hell, most of them worked late into the night to do their dirty work. He’ll be there, Jerry decided, consulting his trusty notebook for the address. Apartment 221. Fifth floor. Jerry could be there in ten minutes if he could find a cab.

  He cast his eye over the snarled traffic. The cops were only just arriving to straighten it out. Better make that twenty minutes, Jerry thought, and he started walking.

  CHAPTER 15

  Gloabon Space Station The Gamulon – Earth Orbit

  Slumped in a chair in his executive office, his head back and an ice pack balanced on his brow, Fleet Admiral Squernshall awoke with a start, gasping for air. He sat up, the ice pack falling into his lap with a repulsive squelch. Crying out, he flung the slippery object from him, then he pressed his hand hard against his forehead, trying to force the pain back by the sheer pressure from his fingertips. “Jamangle!” he called out. “Damn it. Where are you?”

  “Here, sir,” a voice croaked from beneath the table, the words followed a moment later by something crashing against the table’s underside and a yelp of pain.

  Squernshall forced his eyes to focus. “Get out from under there. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” On all fours, Captain Jamangle crept from beneath the table. “Permission to stay down here, sir.”

  “Denied,” Squernshall snapped. “Get up! Stand like an officer and a Gloabon.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Jamangle grunted but did not rise from the floor. “Sir, I formally request permission to report to the chief medical officer for exploratory cranial surgery.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense. Get up this instant, or I’ll have you thrown out of an airlock.”

  Jamangle didn’t move. “Sir, the nearest airlock is on deck five. Technically it should only be used for funerals, but the way I’m feeling, we may as well get it over with.”

  Squernshall reached down and grabbed a fistful of Jamangle’s tunic, yanking him bodily from the floor and setting him on his feet before letting him go. “Am I going to have to shake some sense into you, Captain?”

  “No, sir. Please don’t do that.” Jamangle leaned on the table for support and attempted a salute, his fist missing his chest and hitting his shoulder. “Sir, reporting for duty.”

  “You youngsters can’t take your Brahmian liquor,” Squernshall jeered. “Different in my day, I can tell you.” He gazed wistfully into the distance, but his reverie came to an abrupt end as more recent memories sprang to the fore. He gripped his chair’s armrests tight. “Oh dear,” he muttered. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

  “Quite so, sir,” Jamangle said. “Perhaps it would better if I were to retire to my quarters. I fear that there is an unacceptable quantity of drool down the front of my dress uniform.”

  Squernshall glared at him. “We’ve got more to worry about than that, you dolt! Don’t you remember? Don’t you know what we did on that filthy Andelian rust bucket?”

  Jamangle started shaking his head, then his eyes went wide as the realization hit him hard. “That actually happened? I thought I dreamed it.”

  “If only that were true,” Squernshall muttered. “No, we took prisoners. We rounded up most of the Andelian officers and crew.”

  “Ah, I thought you were talking about the attack of the fish-people.” Jamangle clutched at his scalp with both hands. “Okay, that was a dream. Thank flek for that. Oh, their cold eyes, their slimy fingers!” He shuddered. “Sorry, sir. Pulling myself together, sir.” Jamangle nodded slowly. “Yes, I remember now. The Andelians insulted us, and you ordered reprisals. Lord Pelligrew and his adjutant went back to their ship, but you had the Andelians zinged over here. It’s all coming back to me now, sir.”

  “About time. Right, where are the prisoners?”

  Jamangle winced. “I have an awful feeling they were escorted to the brig. This isn’t going to look good.”

  Squernshall stood. “Follow me to the bridge. We’ll have to put this right without too much fuss, or we’ll both be banished, and we won’t even be lucky enough to end up on Earth.”

  “You mean, Kamalon Three?” Jamangle asked, his voice rising to a squeak.

  “Or worse.” Squernshall tugged down the hem of his tunic, but before he could march from the room, the display on his personal workstation lit up to indicate an incoming call. “What now?” he grumbled, but when he saw the caller’s name displayed, he set his mouth in a grim line and accepted the call, blinking as Mark Halbrook’s face flashed up on the screen.

  “Fleet Admiral,” Halbrook began, “I hope I haven’t called at a bad time.”

  Squernshall pursed his lips and considered mentioning the diplomatic blunder that could erupt into violence at any moment. “No, but I am somewhat occupied with official government business at the present.”

  “Just a quick message then,” Halbrook went on. “I’d be grateful if you could help me out with a small matter. I have one of your people who’s been helping us out at GIT, and it seems he’s been banished or some such thing.”

  “Criminal, eh? Serve him right.”

  “Apparently not. His name is Rawlgeeb, and from my contacts, it seems that he was wrongly accused. In fact, he turned out to be very useful to your government, so he’d like to be reinstated as a Gloabon citizen.”

  “What contacts do you have aboard my station?” Squernshall demanded. “Have you been going behind my back? Because if you have–”

  “Nothing untoward, I assure you,” Halbrook said smoothly. “I made a few calls as a preliminary background check, that’s all. I talked to Shappham, and he put in a good word for Rawlgeeb. He was all in favor of my friend getting his citizenship back.”

  Squernshall grimaced. Shappham! he thought. What has that worm been plotting? But aloud, all he said was, “It’ll have to wait. Get back to me soon.”

  Jamangle sidled up to him. “Sir! There’s something you should know.”

  “Hold on a second.” Squernshall muted the call. “What is it, Jamangle? Damned if you don’t make me miss old Zorello, treacherous little swine that he was.”

  “This couldn’t wait,” Jamangle said, his face pale. “Sir, I’ve received a message on my communicator. We’re needed on the bridge urgently.”

  “Is it the prisoners?”

  “Indirectly, sir. You see, a fleet of warships from the Andel-Kreit Coalition have dropped out of warp nearby, and they’ve formed up for battle.”

  Squernshall pushed out his lower lip, his military mind kicking into gear. He’d earned his many medals and promotions in the days of outright war between his government and anyone else who’d had the audacity to stray into Gloabon territories. For most of his adult life, the cry of Battle stations! had been meat and drink to him, and the blaring Klaxons of combat had been the only music that could move his soul. This! he thought. This is my moment. This is what I was made for. He bared his teeth in a savage smile and opened a channel to the bridge:

  “This is your Fleet Admiral. All hands, battle stations. Tactical, increase power to shields and prime all countermeasures. Lock missiles on every Andel-Kreit vessel and spin up the cannons. I want fission torpedoes loaded and ready to launch, and somebody bring me a cup of hurled grain tea, but I’m warning you, it had better be hot, because it’s been a while since I stuffed an ensign down a torpedo tube, but you never quite lose the knack. Squernshall out.”

  “Shim!” Jamangle whispered. “That was awesome.”

  “That was only the beginning,” Squernshall said. “Now, get the prisoners smartened up and make sure they’ve had food and water. Later on, I might want them fetched
up to the bridge so I can put them on screen.”

  “Aye, Admiral.” Jamangle managed to stand to attention. “An excellent strategy. The coalition ships won’t open fire so long as we have their officers aboard.”

  Squernshall shook his head. “We don’t know that for sure. We must prepare for an attack. Go to the bridge and give them hell. Make sure no one’s slacking, and maybe we’ll see if you can live up to the pips on that uniform.”

  “Aye, sir.” Jamangle saluted smartly then hurried from the room.

  “I’ll make an officer of him yet,” Squernshall murmured, then he reopened the call to Halbrook. “Sorry about that. We have a situation developing up here, but I believe we may be of some use to each other.”

  “How’s that, Admiral?” Halbrook asked, his frown betraying his irritation at being kept waiting. “I’ll need the specifics.”

  “You’ll get them, all right.” Squernshall smiled. He knew the Andelian savages would demand a sacrifice: a Gloabon to be handed over in recompense for the prisoners taken. But they wouldn’t be satisfied with just anyone. They’d expect someone of a certain rank: someone who could be dressed up and made to look the part. And from what he remembered of Rawlgeeb, his air of self-importance made him the perfect candidate. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Halbrook. Rawlgeeb can be reinstated as a Gloabon right away, but I want him up here. I have something in mind for him.”

  Halbrook’s face fell. “I don’t know. I’ll see what I can do, but you mentioned a situation developing, and Rawlgeeb strikes me as the cautious type.”

  “And you strike me as the persuasive type,” Squernshall said smoothly. “Make this happen, Halbrook, and I won’t forget that you’ve been a good friend to the Gloabon Government.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “We have a new line in wearable technology coming out soon. Strap them on your wrist and they monitor your personal progress through the temporal dimension.”

  “Hang on, isn’t that a wristwatch?”

  Squernshall offered an indulgent smile. “Not really. I’m told that these devices run on a specially cut-down operating system, so they’re totally distraction-free. They tell the time very accurately, but they do nothing else.”

  “Nothing at all?” Halbrook raised his eyebrows. “That’s certainly a bold move. Fascinating.” His self-satisfied smile was back. “Could we say that Rawlgeeb will be with you as soon as humanly possible?”

  “We certainly could, but as soon as Gloabonly possible would be better. At any rate, tell Rawlgeeb that I look forward to welcoming him back into the Gloabon race. Goodbye.” Squernshall ended the call. His bridge beckoned, and if Jamangle hadn’t galvanized everyone into action, he’d be joining Zorello in the deepest, darkest cell on The Gamulon. Squernshall squared his shoulders and made for the door. I may have lost the peace, he told himself, but if there’s to be a fight, I will not be defeated, whatever the cost.

  CHAPTER 16

  Aboard The Kreltonian Skull – Andromeda Class Battle Cruiser

  Official Status: Battle Stations.

  Ship’s Log: Earth Orbit – Skeleton Crew.

  The bridge was bathed in a red glow as Dex paced from side to side, chewing on the talon of his left thumb.

  From his station, Zeb watched his progress. “Dex, I’d prefer you not to walk up and down like that. It sparks a residual memory that I find strangely…distressing.”

  “Sorry,” Dex muttered distractedly. “But I’ll admit it, Zeb, I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Might I suggest that I leave the science officer’s station and take over on tactical?” He cast a glance at the young Andelian who was staring in bewilderment at the array of screens and control pads. “I believe that Klegg has inadvertently targeted our own cargo bay with a missile.”

  Klegg gaped. “What? I thought that switch was for the lighting. I was trying to brighten the place up. This red is giving me a headache.”

  “Zeb, switch places right now,” Dex called out. “Why didn’t I think of that straight away?”

  “Don’t worry,” Zeb replied, easing Klegg out of his seat and taking his place. “Klegg, go and sit over there at the science officer’s station. And don’t touch anything. See that orange light on the top? Just keep an eye on it for me.”

  “All right,” Klegg said. “What’s it for?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Zeb replied, his hands flashing over the tactical control panels. “Dex, I have a status report.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The Gloabons are preparing to engage. The Gamulon’s shields are up, and its weapons systems have been activated. They have multiple missile locks on us.”

  “Shim!” Dex hissed. “What kind of missiles?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but Gloabon weapons of this type are usually guided by their onboard artificial intelligence and fitted with nuclear warheads.”

  Dex massaged his brow. “Are our shields at full strength?”

  “Yes,” Zeb replied. “I could lock weapons on The Gamulon, targeting critical areas, but I wouldn’t recommend that course of action. I fear that it may escalate the tension.”

  “Do you think?” Dex snapped, then he held up his hands. “I apologize, Zeb. Keep on quoting the obvious to me, and maybe you’ll stop me from doing something I’ll regret forever.”

  Zeb smiled. “With respect, if you do something inadvisable in the context of our current status, forever won’t be very long at all.”

  “Point taken.” Dex sat down in the captain’s chair and accessed the control panels in the armrests. “Stupid place for controls,” he muttered. “Why aren’t my panels in front of me like everyone else’s? Twice, I’ve put my elbow on the navcom by accident, and there’s literally nowhere to rest my arms. Nowhere. And would it be too much to ask for a cup-holder?”

  “Sir,” Zeb said firmly. “I suggest that you take a deep breath. I’m sure the crew would be reassured if you adopted a calm and efficient manner.”

  Dex scanned the bridge and saw that every face was turned in his direction. The expressions of the hastily assembled crew were filled with anxiety, and there was a tense look in their eyes that seemed dangerously close to existential terror. It’s all up to me, Dex told himself. I’ve dragged these people into this mess, and now it’s up to me to save them.

  CHAPTER 17

  Earth

  In his office, Brent perched on his desk and offered Maisie a smile. “So, how do you like the new visitors’ chair?”

  “I chose it especially,” Vince said, beaming from his place at his desk. “You know, in case you ever stopped by.”

  “That was very sweet of you,” Maisie replied, smoothing down the fabric of her stylish skirt. “Always nice to have a comfortable chair when you’ve been snatched from the street.”

  “Come now, that isn’t fair,” Rawlgeeb put in. He too was perching on the edge of his desk though he could not have looked less nonchalant if he’d tried. “We explained all that in the car.”

  “Please, don’t remind me,” Doctor Cooper piped up from the older visitors’ chair. “That ride set my therapy back by months.”

  “Eddie can certainly move that car when he wants to,” Brent said. “You know, I miss him. He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write.”

  “The driver?” Maisie asked. “Is he a friend of yours, Brent? Only, he didn’t say a word to you the whole trip. And when you didn’t give him a tip, he gave you a look that could punch clean through Kevlar.”

  “That’s just his way,” Brent replied.

  “He gave me his number,” Vince said. “I didn’t ask him for it, but he was quite insistent. I don’t know why.”

  Brent regarded his assistant in silence for a second. “Remind me to have a talk with you sometime, Vince. Man to muddle-head.”

  “You’re all insane,” Cooper blurted. “And by the way, what you did to me was tantamount to kidnapping. You may not have had a gun in your pocket, but you forced me here all the same.”

  Rawlgeeb shoo
k his head. “You can leave at any time, Doctor, but I wouldn’t advise it. The assassin could be anywhere.”

  Cooper winced, his whole body tensing as though iced water had been poured down the back of his neck. “All right. Let’s figure out what to do.” He took a steadying breath. “Give me all the facts you have. I need data. I can’t make bricks without clay.”

  Brent held up his hand to count off each point on his fingers. “One–the Gloabon assassin, Surrana, has a grudge against all of us. Two–she’s right here on Earth and she’s tried to take us out once already. Three–we only got away because–”

  “Shouldn’t that be four?” Vince interrupted. “There were two parts to point two.”

  Brent glared at him. “If I want help with my presentation, I’ll send you an invite in the mail. In the meantime, if you need help keeping your trap shut, I’m sure I have a staple gun here somewhere.”

  “Actually, it’s in the stationery cupboard,” Rawlgeeb said helpfully. “I put it away after its annual service.”

  “We don’t have a stationery cupboard,” Brent protested.

  Rawlgeeb’s chest swelled with pride. “We do now. I had to throw out a load of old bottles, but now there’s plenty of room for envelopes, notepads, and all the other good stuff we need.”

  “What?” Brent’s eyes went to the tall wooden cupboard in the corner. “You threw out my collection of whiskey bottles?”