Dead Men Don't Disco

by Michael Campling

  “They were empty,” Rawlgeeb said reasonably. “And you don’t drink anyway, so–”

  “They were old friends,” Brent interrupted. “I keep them there…to remind me.”

  Rawlgeeb lifted his chin. “Of what?”

  “Don’t ask,” Vince said quickly. “Seriously.”

  “Brent, we’ll talk about this later,” Rawlgeeb suggested. “Let’s get back to point three.”

  “Or four,” Maisie said with an impish grin.

  “Don’t you start,” Brent snapped, but Maisie’s smile was doing something to melt away his rising temper: something warm and soft and possibly illegal. His wits made a brave effort to gather themselves together, but most of them were still lolling around Brent’s mind, engaged in non-constructive daydreams of roses and moonlight. “As I was saying…” he began. “Wait, what was I saying?”

  “When Surrana confronted us, we only got away because of my quick thinking,” Rawlgeeb put in. “I foiled her with my lightning reflexes.”

  “That, and the fact that Surrana has some kind of alien rash,” Vince added.

  Cooper clicked his fingers. “Stop. Now we’re getting somewhere. What do we know about her illness?”

  “Our name for it translates roughly to the human word for plague,” Rawlgeeb explained. “It’s a type of glyphoform necrosis. The bacteria in her skin are dying though I can’t say why.” He scratched his chin. “It’s possible that we caused the disease when we tried to flush her out the airlock on the space dock. Nitrogen deprivation is harmful to our symbiotic bacteria.”

  “Yes, I know,” Cooper said thoughtfully. “If our encounter was the trigger, then I wonder how she’s survived so long. From what I know of the disease, infection sets in once the bacteria are compromised. The glyphoforms act as a protective barrier, almost like a second skin, but once it ceases to function…” He frowned. “Quite honestly, I’m surprised that she isn’t confined to a hospital already.”

  Rawlgeeb nodded. “Me too, but then, she must have a strong constitution. Perhaps she’s able to keep going through the sheer force of her willpower.”

  “No, that can’t be it. That can’t be the explanation.” Cooper stood, his hands combing the air. “She must’ve laid her hands on some means to fight the infection. I know–antibiotics!”

  Brent pursed his lips. “Sounds serious. I never heard of them.”

  “It was a kind of antibacterial drug,” Maisie explained. “People used to use them a lot, but antibiotics stopped working long before the Gloabons came. Didn’t they teach history at your high school, Brent?”

  Brent shrugged. “Who knows? Something was going on in there, but I never cared to ask what.”

  “You didn’t go to high school?” Maisie asked.

  “Sure. I got as far as the parking lot.” Brent grinned. “I ran a nice little racket. My first stakeout. I spent my days in the back of an old Ford with a vid-cam and a long lens. The sightlines were great. You might say I majored in high-res imagery. I got footage of everything that went down. There was booze, dope, and all kinds of shenanigans. And that was just the teachers.”

  Maisie shook her head in disbelief. “Note to self: Do not, under any circumstances, ask Brent personal questions.”

  “And here I thought we were getting to know one another,” Brent grumbled as he turned back to Cooper. “All right, Doc, let’s get cold and clinical. If these old-fashioned pills don’t work anymore, why do you think the Gloabon dame has them?”

  Cooper pushed out his lower lip. “I shouldn’t really say, but at GIT, we’re developing some new antibiotics with the help of certain pharmaceutical manufacturers.”

  “Would they happen to be Gloabon-backed companies?” Brent asked.

  “I can’t possibly say,” Cooper replied. “But the point is, these meds are out there. They’re being trialed, but it’s all very low-profile. I don’t know how Surrana could’ve got her hands on them, but they’re probably the only thing that could keep her alive.”

  “Once you eliminate the impossible,” Rawlgeeb muttered thoughtfully.

  Brent grimaced. “Keep your eliminations to yourself. We’ll have no scatological nonsense in my office.”

  Doctor Cooper broke the awkward silence. “There’s a chance that I can view the records for the trial, then we could trace the antibiotics through the supply chain. If I’m right, we’ll know who’s giving them to Surrana, but I’ll have to go back to GIT to access the files.”

  “No need,” Vince said brightly, opening his laptop. “I’m sure you must have remote access privileges, so you can log in from here.”

  “Right.” Cooper narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t by any chance happen to have a keylogger on that machine?”

  Vince was all wide-eyed innocence. “Of course not. And you can erase all your history afterward. I have a military-grade file shredder on here that’s so good it’ll make you wonder if you really exist.”

  “Very well.” Cooper moved to Vince’s desk and hunched over his laptop, trying to cover the keyboard with one hand while he typed.

  “Was that a J or a K?” Vince asked, then he held up his hands, grinning. “Just kidding. I wasn’t watching. But, dude, you should’ve seen your face.”

  “Play nice, children,” Brent drawled, turning his attention to Maisie. “Maybe we should head outside for some fresh air while the little ones tire themselves out. We can come back later to tuck them in and read them a story.”

  “That’s a sweet offer,” Maisie purred, “and I’m tempted, really I am, but I’m a little concerned about the assassin stalking the streets with a picture of me in her pocket.”

  Vince looked up. “Don’t go anywhere. We’re safer together.”

  “Are we though?” Maisie asked. “I mean, the assassin might not know where I live, but Brent’s office is listed online.”

  “It sure is,” Brent said proudly. “But those reviews are way off. I ought to complain. I know they say you shouldn’t feed the trolls, but my question is, to what?”

  Maisie lowered her eyebrows. “I don’t follow.”

  “Well, can I feed these trolls to the gators, for instance? Or would lions be better?” He stroked his chin. “I guess hyenas would be more appropriate.”

  Rawlgeeb drummed his fingers on his desk. “Sometimes, Brent, I think the English language is wasted on you.” He glanced at Vince. “How long will it take to run the trace?”

  “Almost done,” Vince announced. “Yep, here we go. We have a list of sales, and GIT have already done half the work for us.”

  Brent crossed the room to stand behind Vince. “How come? Are they chasing after the assassin too?”

  “Not as far as I’m aware,” Cooper replied. “But they have flagged two recent sales as suspicious. The purchaser used fake ID, but it was nowhere near good enough to fool our systems. We have him. Name, address, place of work, everything.”

  Maisie stood quickly, her hand on her chest. “Who is it?”

  “A reporter by the name of Jerry Martellini,” Vince said. “Works at The New Earth Times.”

  Out in the hallway, something scraped against the floor.

  “We’ve got company,” Brent said. “Vince, go fetch.”

  Vince shot from his seat and dashed to the door, yanking it open and disappearing into the gloom. They heard the beat of heavy footsteps then a muffled yelp, and a moment later, Vince reappeared, leading a sallow-faced man by the arm. Vince pushed him inside and closed the door firmly, leaning his back against it and folding his arms.

  Brent looked the man up and down. The guy had seen better days, but from the dark pouches beneath his eyes and the deep worry lines creasing his brow, they hadn’t been that much better. “Mr. Martellini, I presume.” Brent spread his arms wide. “Welcome to my humble office.”

  “Very funny,” Jerry snapped. “You can’t keep me in here. Haven’t you heard of the freedom of the press?”

  “Heard of it, don’t much like the idea,” Brent shot bac
k. “Seems to me that privileges ought to be earned. What’ve you done to deserve that right, Martellini? Did you feed the poor? Did you heal the sick? Or were you too wrapped up in selling advertising space to whichever giant corporation happens to be rolling out the latest gadget this month?”

  Jerry scowled. “That’s big talk for a guy mixed up in Enderley’s crooked schemes. I’d say that anyone in cahoots with our ex-mayor is a legitimate subject for my paper. I know what you’re into, Bolster, and people ought to be told about it. It’s in the public interest.”

  “And what is it that you think you know?” Maisie asked, squaring up to Jerry.

  “Well…” Under Maisie’s gaze, Jerry suddenly seemed to have difficulty articulating his thoughts. “I, er, at least I suspect you were employed by the former mayor, and as you probably know, he had a racket going with the Gloabons.” He inclined his head toward Rawlgeeb. “It don’t take too much to figure the rest. You’ve been doing Enderley’s dirty work.”

  Maisie laughed. “You have absolutely nothing. Yes, we undertook a task for Mr. Enderley, but we cooperated fully with the authorities. They know everything we did. We gave full statements, and no charges were brought against us.”

  Jerry grunted. “Do you think that puts you in the clear? No way. We all know how it works. If the Gloabons want a lid kept on a story, then that’s the way it goes. But I’ve had it with all that. It’s time to speak truth to power.”

  Brent clapped slowly, and Rawlgeeb raised his hands hesitantly. “Sorry, Brent, but is this applause ironic or sarcastic?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Brent shrugged. “Pick one and stick with it, that’s always been my motto.”

  “It’s that old song that confuses me,” Rawlgeeb said wistfully. “You know, that classical piece by the mezzo-soprano Morissette. It’s always seemed to me that she didn’t fully understand the concept of irony, nor appreciate that all unfortunate events do not fall into that category. Which, when you think about it, is ironic.” His mouth formed a silent O. “Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps that’s what she was trying to say, all those years ago.”

  “Rawlgeeb,” Brent began, “I mean this with the greatest of respect, but if you don’t shut up, I’m going to push you out of the window.”

  “Hey, you have a new window,” Maisie said. “I didn’t notice it before. Wow, it’s so big. And rectangular. I’d have put a circular one over there, but it’s your office.”

  “Stop!” Cooper cried out. “I can’t stand this…this nonsense!” He stood stiffly, striding toward Jerry, his eyes blazing. “Did you, or did you not, supply experimental antibiotics to the Gloabon assassin?”

  Jerry jutted his jaw. “Forget about it. I don’t divulge my sources.”

  “I wonder,” Brent said thoughtfully. “Rawlgeeb, do you still have that restrictor band?”

  Rawlgeeb folded his arms. “I thought you wanted me to shut up.”

  “What are you, nine years old?” Brent asked with exaggerated patience. “Do you have the means to get our friend Jerry zipped up to the space station for a little light probing?”

  Rawlgeeb made a show of studying Jerry. “Yes, I can see that he’d make a most interesting specimen. The only problem is, he looks so like a lizard, he may wind up on the evening menu.”

  “You don’t scare me,” Jerry said. “I’ve been abducted before. Never did me no harm.”

  Moving slowly, Rawlgeeb stood, pulling himself up to his full height. He advanced on Jerry, his gaze traveling the length of the newsman’s body. “Very interesting,” Rawlgeeb murmured, running his tongue along his pointed teeth. “Nice cervical vertebrae. Just right for one of the new implants, isn’t that right, Doctor Cooper?”

  Cooper hesitated for a moment, but Brent made an encouraging gesture with his hands, and the scientist nodded gravely. “Yes. The new implants. They’re still at an early stage of development, but we’ve had very few adverse reactions. A few patients became a little schizophrenic, but they were right as rain once we had them properly sedated. Of course, we can never untie their restraints, but they seem happy enough. And hardly any of the implants exploded. Just a handful. It was nothing to worry about. Messy, but not statistically significant.”

  “I’d say that’s an acceptable risk in the name of scientific advancement,” Rawlgeeb put in. He fumbled in his pocket. “We may as well get on with it. Now, where did I put that restrictor band?”

  “Maybe Algernon has it,” Maisie said, affecting an innocent expression. “Where is he anyway?”

  “Algernon is upstairs, taking a rest,” Brent said firmly. “I’ll fetch him down later.”

  “Who the hell is Algernon?” Jerry demanded.

  “He doesn’t get out much,” Brent replied. “Maybe I’ll introduce you later. You’ll like him. You’ll have a lot to talk about.”

  “I don’t think you ought to risk that,” Maisie said. “Algernon is cold-blooded at the best of times, and he doesn’t always take kindly to strangers.”

  Jerry held out his hands. “Look, let’s leave this Algernon fella out of this. We can make a deal, all right?”

  Brent and Rawlgeeb exchanged a look. “What kind of deal?” Brent asked.

  “I give you Surrana, you give me the inside scoop on everything that’s going down, and I mean everything.”

  “So, you admit you were working with the assassin?” Rawlgeeb demanded.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “You’d better be ready to tell us the truth,” Brent said. “If you spin us a line, we’ll tell Surrana that you ratted her out. You’ll be a dead man.”

  Jerry shrugged. “I know. But the shine is coming off my relationship with a certain Gloabon. She messed with a friend of mine, and for all I know, I’m already next on her hit list.” He let out a grim chuckle. “She strikes me as a dame who doesn’t like to leave any loose ends, know what I mean?”

  “Oh yes,” Brent replied. “So, where is she hiding out? And how do I get to her without suffering from an unfortunate accident?”

  Jerry reached inside his overcoat.

  “Easy, Martellini,” Brent warned, but Jerry pulled out a handset.

  “Relax. I’ll ping you the address. I already have your number.” Jerry tapped his handset. “There you go. It’s a back alley. Pretty grim. You never know where she’ll spring from.” He shuddered. “I’ll tell you one thing though, I’m glad I won’t have to walk down that mean street again.”

  “Oh, you’ll be visiting it real soon,” Brent shot back. “But at least, this time, you won’t be alone.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Aboard The Kreltonian Skull – Andromeda Class Battle Cruiser

  Official Status: Under Attack – Comms Blackout.

  Ship’s Log: Earth Orbit – Skeleton Crew.

  “Okay, everybody,” Dex called out, “except for Zeb, I want you all to leave your posts for a minute and form up in a line in order of rank.”

  The crew rushed to obey, barging into each other in their haste to comply, and Dex’s heart quailed when he realized they were going to fail in this simple task.

  “What’s all this squabbling?” Dex demanded. “You two, what are your names?”

  Two crew members, one male and one female, snapped to attention. “Chief Petty Officer Cricklade,” the female said.

  “Chief Petty Officer Nailsea,” the other added. “Sorry, sir, but we have the same rank. Where do you want us to stand?”

  “Cricklade on the left,” Dex began. “No, my left.” He waited while they arranged themselves correctly, then he stood back, his hands clasped behind his back and addressed his crew. “Now, you are all hereby promoted to the rank of Ensign. As of this second, you are officers on the bridge of The Kreltonian Skull. You may not feel up to the task, but you are ready to undertake this mission. And as befits officers of this fine ship, you will conduct yourselves with professionalism and efficiency.”

  “Permission to speak, sir,” Cricklade said.

  “Go ahead,�
� Dex replied, settling into his role. “But from now on, you’ll all need to speak up without asking for permission.”

  A babble of noises erupted as they all started talking at once.

  “No!” Dex cried, and when they fell silent, he said, “Speak only when you have vital information to relay. Clear communication is key.”

  “Permission to–” Nailsea began, but when he caught Dex’s glare, he said, “That’s exactly what we say in the galley, sir. Clear and precise communication. Short, snappy, and to the point.”

  Dex beamed, sensing an opportunity. “That’s right. I’ve seen inside the galley when you’re all hard at work, and it’s a hectic place, but you all have your own roles to perform, right?”

  Exchanging glances, the crew nodded. But Cricklade didn’t look convinced. “With respect, sir, it’s hardly the same. We trained for years, but only in galleys. It’s not a…what do you call it? A transferable skill set.”

  “You have discipline,” Dex insisted. “You have a chain of command. You have specialization.” Seeing them lose confidence before his eyes, he added, “Raise your hand if you’re in charge of your own section.”

  The crew watched each other from the corners of their eyes, then every single one of them raised a hand.

  “You see?” Dex said. “You already know how to take control of an area. Who’s in charge of, say, the main course?”

  “That would usually be me, sir,” Nailsea said. “CPO Cricklade also has the same duty on certain shifts.”

  Dex pointed at Nailsea. “What’s it like if the chef preparing the sauces is too slow?”

  Nailsea grimaced. “Nightmare.”

  “And what if the side dishes are ready too early or too late?” Dex asked.

  “Same thing,” Nailsea replied. “It all has to be ready at the right time. Down to the second.”

  “And what if Stimps doesn’t have the pan cleaned when you need it?”

  Nailsea grinned. “He would be issued with a stern reminder in line with regs, sir.”

  “What you mean is, he gets his ass kicked,” Dex shot back.