Last Dance of the Phoenix

by James R. Lane

  Cooling our heels in the green room back stage while Melton worked through his opening monologue of jokes, daily news and political commentary, we kept our conversation low-key and innocuous. “I’m pretty sure the green room is bugged,” I’d told the vixens before we left the hotel, “which lets Melton’s producer feed him last-minute, often-awkward, questions to surprise his guests with based on conversational tidbits picked up in there.

  “So,” L’raan challenged, disgusted, “what topics are safe for us to discuss?”

  One of perks of being under the “umbrella” of a black-ops division like the one Art Goldman commanded was that I had access to some of the newest, neatest toys, and besides the lifesaving AI we called Bertha, Art had given me a little gadget the size of a golf ball. “Put this in the middle of a room, flip the switch, and any eavesdropping bugs will be neutralized. Window-vibration-monitoring lasers will be rendered useless, too, as will even an ear pressed against a wall or door. If you leave it on too long, though, it’ll give you a rip-roaring headache, so…” He laughed. “Your vulpine friends will probably hate it immediately, since their hearing is more acute and no doubt attuned to some of the sub-frequencies and harmonics my little gizmo creates.” That, along with several other things he’d gifted me with, was one of the major reasons we didn’t travel via public means. Public meant having to deal with TSA minions, and even with Booker Jones running interference for us in airports, too much attention would be drawn to things we wanted kept under wraps.

  “We'll obviously discuss the positive aspects of the rejuvenation process,” I explained in the hotel room, “but we won't get technical, even if interviewers try to pin us down on specifics. Medical and scientific details will only confuse---and possibly frighten---ordinary citizens, and the last thing we want to do is scare them off. We also must avoid discussion of our private lives. People are curious, especially when you team up males and females in the same house, and some people will try their damnedest to find a sexual reason for such arrangements. In this instance, while we’re of two different species, some people may be highly offended simply with the idea of a mixed-gender, mixed-species household. Best if we shrug off such questions, comments or even hints at interpersonal relationships. All the public needs to know is that we have a professional doctor-patient relationship---and nothing more. They don’t need to know that we’re friends---and they especially don’t need to know that we sleep in the same room, much less the same bed.”

  “But we do nothing of a sexual nature!” L’raan barked in annoyance. The auditory masker had her nerves on edge. “It’s normal for our kind to sleep together!”

  “Sexually mature males and females of my kind only sleep together when mated, or when sexually active with each other,” I countered, exasperated, “and no amount of our denial of anything sexual about our…arrangement…would work. If asked, just ‘play dumb’ and say nothing about it!”

  “We also need to avoid any mention of our security precautions,” the old physician stated, “as well as the reasons for them. Even if we’re assaulted in some manner, we should feign ignorance and innocence. We cannot afford to let the public know how severe this threat is, at least until we know far more about it.”

  We watched a monitor while Melton did his opening monologue, and when it was over and the show broke for commercials, he took his seat behind his desk and an assistant producer hurried into our room to make sure we were ready to be introduced when the break was over. The staff seemed unusually nervous, and I attributed it to the presence of our security folks as well as my alien companions. I’d been a guest on Melton’s show years earlier, and even with the big-name celebrities I’d shared the guest list with, the staff had seemed professional almost to the point of being bored. Not now. They’d even made it a point to discretely inquire as to the Yularians’ favorite snacks. Would they perhaps like dog biscuits or bacon treats, or did they need bowls of chilled mineral water? Good grief! I told them (politely) that a small bowl of mixed fruit---including grapes---would be appreciated, as well as a few chilled glasses of Welches grape juice, complete with plastic drinking straws. Nothing else, thankyouverymuch.

  “You’ll be introduced in about thirty seconds,” the young man said, “so please come with me to the off-camera staging area.” We stood and followed him, and as promised, Melton soon gave us a warm-sounding welcome and we strode out into the glare of lights and the eyes of untold millions of viewers. Yeah, I was a bit nervous, and I could tell from the vixens’ body language that they were nervous, too. The studio audience even seemed a bit restless, probably because most had never been in the presence of a live alien, much less two of them. The only one who appeared to be totally at ease with our appearance was Booker Jones, and I knew that his apparent “cool” was an act. He was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs; he was just good at hiding it. The bastard.

  Melton’s set was similar to the classic Tonight Show layout, which meant the host had a separate desk while his guests sat in a chair/couch line to his right with a low coffee table in front of them. When we were brought out I was seated in the chair nearest his desk, while the vixens were given the couch---B’naah closest to me. A glass of Scotch whiskey on ice (!!) was on the corner of the desk nearest me, while chilled glasses of grape juice (with straws!) were on the coffee table within reach of the vixens.

  “To borrow Billy Crystal’s famous line,” Melton stated, grinning, after the nervous applause died down, “I have to say, Tom, that you look mahvelous!”

  I laughed (the vixens didn’t catch the joke) and said, “Thanks, Harvey, but I can’t credit the gym or a celebrity diet for this; it’s all the work of Doctor N’looma and her team of scientists, including her lovely assistant L’raan, seated here.” I indicated the vixens and Melton and the audience dutifully applauded. The Yularians didn’t know quite what to do, so they said nothing, blinking into the bright lights. “The last time you had me on the show I’d just had my second heart attack, and I firmly believed the next one would take me out. Now--- The ticker’s solid, the dentures are gone, I don’t need glasses and I should be good for quite a few more years.” I grinned, then picked up the glass of Scotch and took a modest sip. Wow! That was premium hooch!

  We quickly settled into the standard boiler-plate question and answer format of any talk show, with most of the questions being asked of B’naah and L’raan, the young vixen an obvious hit with the youthful audience members. After the first commercial break in the interview was past and we’d all relaxed into dealing with the next phase of questions, I heard a slight commotion from off stage, then I distinctly heard the voice of Booker Jones issue from beneath my shirt. “Shit!” was all the whispered voice said, at a volume too low for the boom microphones just out of camera range above us to pick up. But that one explicative was enough to alert me that something was amiss, and moments later that “something” came bounding onto the stage.

  “Jesus! Wolves!” Melton cried, obviously shocked at seeing three huge timber wolves burst through the curtains and, looking quickly around, fixate their attention on the Yularians---and me. They padded around his desk and took up positions in front of our seats, directly across the coffee table, each one seeming to pick its target, their yellow eyes and huge pupils locked onto us like radar. Then, as if on cue, they crouched, obviously preparing to leap across the table and have their way with us. I didn’t even notice the faint click in my head. Jones was still out of sight, and no other security personnel were in position to take the wolves down; the armed agents in the audience had risen from their seats and drawn concealed Glock pistols, but they dared not fire for fear of hitting the Yularians or me.

  It looked like we were to be wolf chow when suddenly all three wolves yelped, then collapsed onto the floor, quivering and kicking like they’d been suddenly lobotomized. Melton yelled at his producer to go to break, and moments later the tally lights on the cameras went dark. Around that time Jones and several other
armed guards burst onto the set, but it was obvious that the wolves were out of commission. Other than a few random kicks and their obvious breathing---and reflexive pissing and shitting---they were totally helpless, the black pupils of their eyes now contracted to pinpoints.

  Everything had happened so quickly the vixens and I hadn’t had time to run, much less scramble over the backs of our seats, and the horrified look on Melton’s face told me this was in no way a stunt. His face under the stage makeup was sheet-white, and I knew he wasn’t capable of that kind of acting. This had been a carefully staged attack---but by who? And how had the wolves gotten past security?

  And just what in bleeding hell had happened to them?

  “Booker!” I yelled. “Secure ‘em and get ‘em somewhere where you can examine ‘em! And whatever you do, don’t let ‘em out of your sight, even for a moment!”

  While I technically wasn’t his commander, (Art was) he nodded and said, “Gotcha.” Then he had several stage hands scoop the comatose animals up and hustle them off-stage, and another stage hand with an old-fashioned mop and bucket quickly cleaned up their urine and feces. I made sure the vixens were all right---they were breathing hard but thankfully none of us had wet ourselves, although I wasn’t so sure about Melton. He still looked terribly shaken.

  “Harvey, buddy,” I whispered, “take a hard slug of my Scotch. It’ll help.” He looked at me with still-wild eyes, blinked, then looked down at the proffered glass of whiskey. Then he gave me a shaky grin, reaching under his desk to a hidden shelf and pulling out a similar glass filled with amber liquid over ice. He drained most of the glass in three heroic swallows, then returned it to its compartment.

  “Maker’s Mark,” he stated after catching his breath. “Even your beloved Glen Livet tastes too much like turpentine for me.” Then he barked a laugh before saying, “Do you want to continue the show, Tom? I swear to you that wasn’t staged. I…I don’t know where those damned things came from, but I’m gonna find out---”

  I quickly checked with the Yularians but they were still doing fine, so I told Melton, “We’re good to go when you are, Harvey, but don’t you think you need to calm your audience a bit? I’m sure some of them think it was all an act, while others are apparently a bit freaked knowing that there were armed guards mixed in with them.”

  He nodded, then shakily got up and went down to the front of the audience, taking a hand microphone from a stage hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, what just happened was not a stunt, and at this time we don’t know where those animals came from, or what exactly happened to them. As you know, this show is recorded for airing nationwide a few hours from now, but to maintain credibility I’m going to make sure my staff includes the disturbance in tonight’s show. I promise you that when I find out who was behind it I’ll let everybody know, but until then we’re going to continue with tonight’s show. Are you with me?” Melton knew how to handle an audience, and after a second hearty, “Are you with me?” they quickly responded with nervous cheers and applause. He hurried back to his chair and the floor manager told us we’d be back “on” in thirty seconds.

  Show business. Gotta love it!

  Chapter 20

  Showtime! (Take 2)

  When the machines started recording again Melton did a quick explanation to the cameras, stating that the earlier event had not been staged, and that it was under investigation. Since nobody had been hurt, and his guests (us!) weren’t too rattled (he hoped!), the show was going to continue as planned.

  Then he settled back down and dropped what he thought would be a bombshell on me; a “surprise guest” who was actually an old friend of mine, but in this setting a very controversial friend, too.

  “With all due respect to our Yularian guests tonight,” Melton began, “most humans who have had personal contact with the four alien species have found our new alien friends to be…how should I put this…somewhat less than friendly. Frankly, we don’t understand why they don’t like us, but to possibly help shed some light on the matter I’ve invited the chairman and director of one of the oldest-running anthropomorphic-themed conventions in the country to join us. For those of you who don’t recognize the term, this type of convention is more commonly known as a ‘furry’ convention, where many of the attendees dress up in animal suits and frolic, dance and perform stunts and skits. Some of the ‘fursuiters’ have day jobs performing in theme parks, but most of those in the animal costumes do it strictly as a hobby---or in some cases, they’re more serious and do it as an ‘alternate lifestyle’. Please welcome Simon ‘Poppa Cat’ Branch!”

  Oh, this was going to be interesting! I’d known Simon Branch for a good twenty years, and due to the anthropomorphic themes and characters in the novels I’d written, and the popular movies they’d spawned, Simon had made me Guest of Honor several times at his convention. While I’d never dressed in animal costumes, I’d enjoyed myself immensely and made numerous friends and acquaintances at the conventions over the years. Still, Simon’s surprise presence here raised several red flags, and I knew I’d have to tread carefully---and postpone killing Melton until later.

  The curtains parted and the tall, striking figure of Simon Branch emerged, and I had to admit that he looked damned good for his age (which was still several decades less than my own). I quickly thanked God that Branch wasn’t wearing any of the customary “furry” accoutrements---clip-on animal ears or a strap-on tail---but he still cut a stylish swath in classic New England nautical yachtsman garb: Khaki slacks, deck shoes (sans socks), an open-collar shirt with an ascot, a gold-button blue blazer and a white yachtsman hat over his coal-black, fashionably-long hair. All that was missing was a cigarette in a long holder, but Branch didn’t smoke, so we were spared that foppish indignity.

  He shook hands with Melton as he passed in front of the desk, and then he reached me---somewhat reluctantly, I thought, as I detected a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. I wasn’t going to be a jerk and make a scene, though, so I greeted him warmly, saying, “Last time I saw you, Simon, I was jealous.” He looked momentarily puzzled. “You looked so much younger than I did, and at my advanced age I knew my days were numbered---in very low digits!” He laughed nervously. “Now, thanks to my Yularian friends here, all I need is to score some snazzy threads like yours---and a sleek yacht like yours to go with them---and I, too, can go club-hopping!” I introduced him to the vixens, then gave him the chair next to Melton’s desk. Since the two Yularians’ butts weren’t overly broad, there was room on the couch for me to scoot them down and squeeze in next to B’naah.

  Before Melton could stir up any trouble I injected: “Since the anthropomorphic fandom quickly became a popular spin-off of science fiction and fantasy, I guess it was inevitable---and unfortunate---that it would attract its share of…shall we say…’controversial media coverage’ some years ago. A few TV shows and some tabloid-type so-called ‘news features’ painted a rather scurrilous and unsavory image of the furry fandom in general, and especially of those who enjoy costuming and performing in animal-themed suits. Those of us who were familiar with the fandom, however, knew the real score, and we knew the bad publicity was unjustified. With the hard work of people like Simon Branch and many other dedicated convention directors, along with their staffs of enthusiastic volunteers, the image of furry managed to overcome the smears and jeers of the sensationalists. The Paws’N’Claws convention that Simon chairs, held each spring in Savannah, Georgia, is considered one of the best family-friendly furrycons in the country, and I’m proud to have been its Guest of Honor more than once.”

  There! After that build-up I dared Melton to try and turn the tone of the show against the Yularians, and to his credit he didn’t. Still, my old friend Simon had a few questions that he nervously directed to the vixens, and fortunately L’raan chose to let her grandmother be the spokesperson.

  “You…you can’t imagine how thrilled I am to be in the presence of…of real live---!” Branch was momentarily at a loss for words, and the tw
o aliens simply sat quietly, waiting for him to continue. “Sorry. It’s just---” He took a couple of deep breaths, and I briefly feared the stress was going to trigger his asthma. “Those of us in the fandom have spent our lives hoping and dreaming that something like this would happen,” he finally continued, “that someday we’d get to meet people not like us, people who…who resemble---for whatever reason---the various animal species we love. We dress up in animal suits, we play and pretend, and admittedly, some even take it to extremes, but deep down we know that it’s all make-believe, and that no matter how much we want it to be real...when the conventions are over we have to return to our jobs, our families, our ‘normal’ lives.” He smiled wistfully, shaking his head.

  “And then you dropped out of the sky,” Branch suddenly enthused, and I felt the vixens jump, “and it seemed our dreams had come true!” Then his enthusiasm seemed to deflate like a torn hot-air balloon. “But---” His voice grew soft and sad. “You really don’t like us. We’ve seen it; it can’t be denied. We certainly understand that space travel is expensive, and that the high cost limits how many of your people can visit, but…but it seems that none of your wonderfully exciting, exotic people want to visit here for anything other than business, and other than a few embassy personnel---who almost never venture beyond their heavily-guarded walls---none want to stay, and none want even limited contact with us.” He was unconsciously wringing his hands. “I guess what I’m trying to say, to ask, is...what did we do to make---to make you hate us?”

  Melton was just sitting back, letting his guests run the show, be the show, and when I realized he wasn’t trying to twist or warp things---at least not yet---I began to temper my plans for his painful demise, subject to him pulling any further shenanigans.