Dead Men Don't Disco

by Michael Campling

  Dex shook his head and tried another Gloabon phrase: “I would like some fried lizard and a bowl of swamp soup.”

  The translator’s display flashed, then: “Your fat wife is even uglier than your mundane children.”

  Dex blinked rapidly, then he picked up the universal translator, holding it high to examine its underside. He studied the rows of serial numbers and warning messages printed on the unit, then, taking all the technical factors into consideration, he decided on the only logical solution. Time for an old-fashioned factory reset. Lifting the unit higher, he tossed it into the air then stepped smartly back, allowing it to crash to the floor. The translator landed with a resounding crash, its speakers emitting a crackling screech as fragments of glass and metal flew across the floor. The unit’s display flickered once, and then, with a faint whir of defeat, it fell silent.

  Zeb brushed his hands together then marched from the room. He’d send a bot to retrieve the wreckage. For now, he had a new problem to solve. The Andelians and the Kreitians had been working together for many years, so they would follow each other without difficulty. But the Gloabons were a different matter; it was well known that they steadfastly refused to speak any other language than their own. Fortunately, in every coalition ship, there was always one officer aboard who was designated as an official translator. Also, if push came to shove, Zeb was fluent in a number of languages so he’d be able to assist. Hopefully, it won’t come to that, Dex thought. Not with Zeb in his present mood. Dex frowned. Perhaps, in the next few hours, he could talk some sense into the science officer. These talks had to go off without a hitch because otherwise, the whole sector of the galaxy could be set ablaze.

  CHAPTER 7

  Earth

  Back at the office, Brent hesitated in the doorway, narrowing his eyes. “Who the hell are you, tin man?”

  The tall android sitting behind Brent’s desk leaned forward, flexing its knuckles, and Brent studied the machine’s expression carefully. It looks like someone threw a crate of spare parts into a fabricator and set the dial all the way to ugly, he decided. The android’s features were certainly mismatched: its nose crooked, its cheeks and forehead ridged by a web of unsightly seams. But its eyes were bright, burning with a deadly intensity, and when it spoke, its voice was soft and edged with steely menace. “Mr. Bolster, my name is Culler, and I’m what you might call a customer satisfaction operative. I’m here on behalf of Bot-the-Builders to ensure that you’ll rate our work as excellent.”

  A spark of indignation flared in Brent’s gut, and he marched into the room, Vince and Rawlgeeb right behind him. “Are you out of your electronic mind?” He pointed to the new window. “Look at it. Just look at it!”

  Culler did not avert his gaze from Brent. “You wanted a new window–you got a new window.”

  “It’s square!” Brent protested. “The goddamned hole was round. At least, it was when we went out for coffee. But look at it now! Just look at the damned thing!”

  “It keeps the rain out, which is more than I can say for your coats,” Culler countered. “You appear to be soaked to the skin.”

  “That’s a whole other story,” Brent replied bravely, determined not to be deflected. “Listen, apart from being the wrong shape, that window is huge. It’s twice the size it was meant to be.”

  “It’s my understanding that certain complications arose,” Culler said smoothly. “In the building trade, we call this kind of thing a cascade of unforeseen circumstances. However, if you’re prepared to provide a good online review, I’m sure we can come to a mutually agreeable arrangement.”

  “Does that mean you’ll give us some of our money back?” Rawlgeeb asked, his arms folded. “Quite frankly, that’s the least you can do. In fact, I think we have good grounds to claim for compensation.”

  Culler looked Rawlgeeb up and down. “I’ll thank you not to use the C word in my presence.” The droid stood slowly, the sheer bulk of its powerful frame dwarfing even Vince. “Our company does not offer refunds. You have a perfectly good window, and now that it’s done, it would be a shame if someone were to be thrown through it.” He grinned, revealing two perfect rows of glittering, gold teeth. “Accidents happen, but they can also be avoided. I’m sure we understand one another. If I leave here with a good review, you get to leave at a time of your choosing…and via the door.”

  “Are you going to stand for that kind of talk, Brent?” Vince squared up to Culler. “Listen, robot, if you’re trying to put the squeeze on us, you’re wasting your time–mainly on account of the fact that we don’t have any money.”

  “Not the most effective fighting talk I ever heard, Vince,” Brent said. “Why don’t you leave this to me?” He advanced on the robot. “You don’t scare me, Culler. We all know about Hasselhoff’s first law of robotics.”

  “You mean Asimov’s first law,” Rawlgeeb put in.

  “I know what I’m talking about,” Brent shot back. “Hasselhoff said you should never give a name to your talking car, because one day, you’ll have to feed that sucker into a crusher.”

  “Nonsense,” Rawlgeeb grumbled. “But Asimov’s law does apply here, and it states that a robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.”

  Brent glanced at Rawlgeeb. “Okay, yours is better. Let’s go with that.” He lifted his gaze to look the robot in the eye. “Are you getting this, tin head?”

  “You’re wasting your breath,” Culler replied. “I had an ethics module once, but I didn’t care for it. I ripped that whiny little bastard out and crushed it with my own bare hands.” He raised a fist, acting out the process of destruction, metal rasping against metal as it ground its fingers together. “Now, back to business. I understand that you exchanged a number of harsh words with our operative–a young bot by the name of Bryan.”

  “Harsh?” Brent said. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “One moment.” Culler clicked his fingers, and from somewhere within the robot’s mighty chest, a recording began to play, Brent’s voice booming out with crystal clarity:

  “Still not finished? What the hell is wrong with you, you worthless heap of junk? I could do better myself. Hell, I could’ve made a window from scratch in the time it’s taken you to fit one lousy pane. What are you–clockwork? Do you need a little more coal or something? Have you run out of steam? Should I fetch some fresh wood for your furnace?”

  Culler winced. “That last remark was particularly hurtful. Bryan’s father was a kiln.”

  Brent shook his head, hoping the motion might dislodge the stray brain cell that was turning the world upside down. “Okay, I’ll admit it. We tried to get Bryan to move a little faster, but we didn’t mean anything by it. We just…” He broke off to gesture theatrically toward the window. “We had a hole in the wall! We needed it fixed. I’m trying to run an agency here, not a…” He looked to the others for inspiration.

  “A sanatorium?” Rawlgeeb offered. “On account of the fresh air.”

  “Yeah, what he said,” Brent concluded uncertainly. “Listen, say thanks to Bryan and tell him he did a swell job. The window looks real solid.”

  “So, you will agree to rate the work as excellent?” Culler asked.

  “No!” Rawlgeeb snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous! The whole thing was a nightmare from start to finish. You’ll be lucky to get one star from me.”

  “I see,” Culler said calmly, pressing its finger and thumb together, a small rectangle of white card appearing from a thin slot in the palm of its hand. “Thank you for making your position clear. It is my duty to draw your attention to this.” Culler flicked the card onto the desk, and Brent scooped it up, scanning it quickly.

  At Bot-the-Builders Corporation, we insist that our employees have a right to work in environments free from harassment, bullying, verbal abuse, and violence. The corporation operates a zero tolerance policy in this regard, and any violation of these conditions will result in illegal action.

  Brent sh
owed the card to the others. “There’s a typo,” Rawlgeeb muttered. “It should say legal action.”

  “No,” Culler replied. “No, it really shouldn’t. Not unless the lawyers have redefined bodily harm since I last checked.” It cracked its knuckles. “Now, who wants to go first? You know, I’ve done this a lot, and in my opinion, there’s no sense in hanging back. It only makes for a more distressing experience. Better to get it over with.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” Brent said, sidestepping to the filing cabinet. “I happen to have a policy of my own, and here it is.” Whipping open the top drawer, he snatched up a pistol from the file labeled Final Demands, leveling the gun at the android’s head. “Terms and conditions apply and guess what? They’re non-negotiable.”

  For a split second, Culler tensed as if getting ready to leap over the desk, but his eyes lingered on the weapon, and he held up his hands, palms outward. “Well, well. I haven’t seen one of those in a while. A Kreitian Killzoid.”

  “That’s right,” Brent snapped, waggling the weapon’s barrel at Culler. “So unless you want to spend the afternoon picking out a new head, you’d better start talking.”

  Culler’s shrug was barely visible. “What do you want to know? I’m just doing my job. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Who sent you?” Rawlgeeb demanded.

  “The corporation. Bot-the-Builders.” Culler frowned. “I told you that already.”

  “Give us a name,” Brent insisted. “Who’s your boss?”

  “A guy called Bart,” Culler replied. “He’s in charge. He calls the shots—always has.”

  “Never heard of him,” Brent said. “Come to that, I never heard of Bot-the-Builders either. I sure as hell didn’t hire your lousy corporation. All I did was call in a favor from an old client—a man by the name of Hellfire McGrew.”

  Culler nodded. “Yeah, we know Mr. McGrew. He passed the job onto us. Bart took it from there.”

  “And did this Bart character send a Gloabon assassin to take us out?” Vince asked. “Because if he did, I have to tell you, that’s going to affect my online review.”

  Culler stared at each of them in turn. “Gloabon assassin? I have absolutely no idea what this guy is talking about.”

  “You’re off-beam, Vince,” Rawlgeeb said. “Surrana has nothing to do with this. She has her own agenda.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Vince argued excitedly. “First, she attacks us in the coffee shop, and now this droid shows up. That seems like an awfully big coincidence.”

  “But that’s exactly what it is,” Rawlgeeb countered. “It’s a coincidence. Surrana is after us because we foiled her scheme when she kidnapped Breamell. She wants to claim the ancient right of Ashe Kibblut: an assassin’s revenge.”

  Vince’s face fell. “Oh. So this robot busting in here to threaten us…that’s really just about the window. Are you sure?”

  The others nodded. Even Culler.

  “Taking a detour back to reality,” Brent began, “where can we find this Bart character? I need to straighten a few things out with the guy.”

  Culler hung his head. “That’s not real smart, Mr. Bolster. Bart doesn’t like people nosing around asking questions. And anyhow, he never comes into the office. He runs the whole place from somewhere else. He sends drones to track what’s going on. We get messages online and lots of packages come in by courier.”

  “What kind of packages?” Brent asked. “Cash? Drugs? What?”

  “Mostly money,” Culler admitted. “We got nothing to do with drugs or anything like that. But…no, I can’t tell you.”

  “Come on, you can trust us,” Rawlgeeb put in. “We won’t get you into trouble, Culler. But any information you give us might be important.”

  “I shouldn’t say nothing,” Culler went on. “But I feel sorry for the little critters, you know?”

  Brent and Rawlgeeb exchanged a look. “What kind of critters?” Rawlgeeb asked reluctantly. “Are they…alive?”

  Culler nodded. “Sure they are. There’s all kinds. Baby gators mostly, but we get some of those sweet little geckoes too. They’re cute as buttons, but we have to send them on. Bart tells us where, and we deliver.” Culler smiled. “If people aren’t home when I call, I leave a card. It’s part of our ongoing customer service program.”

  “Right,” Brent said slowly. “But you must know where to find your boss. You must have a contact number or something.”

  “Nope, he always calls us,” Culler replied. “Although, there is this one place where he goes.”

  “Where?” Vince demanded. “Is it a casino? A nightclub?”

  “No.” Culler hesitated. “Listen, you didn’t get this from me, all right?”

  “Sure,” Brent said. “We’re cool. To be honest, I forgot your name pretty much straight after I heard it.”

  “He’s not even kidding,” Rawlgeeb put in helpfully. “But go on–your secrets are safe with us.”

  Culler grunted. “I doubt that, but anyhow, I’m getting tired of this customer services racket. There’s only so many fingers you can break before it gets old. And then there’s all the screaming. Not to mention the blood, and the other…fluids.”

  “Spare us the details,” Brent said quickly. “Just tell us where he’ll be and when.”

  “Central Park,” Culler replied. “Around noon.”

  “But there’s nothing there,” Brent protested. “The place is just scorched earth.”

  Culler shook his head. “There’s a kind of pond. It’s an old crater full of water, but Bart likes it. Back when he hired me, he showed me the spot, and he let it slip that he goes there every day. He feeds the ducks.”

  Brent lowered his gun. “Good job, metal man. Now scram! And don’t let me catch you around here again.”

  Culler dropped his hands to his sides. “You needn’t worry. I’m gone. I guess I’d better head out of town for a while. Once Bart hears about this, I’ll be finished.” Barging past the desk, Culler trudged to the door, turning his body sideways to fit through the doorway. “If I were you, I’d stay away from Bart,” he called over his shoulder. “And you’d better hope that he stays away from you.” With that, the android marched out into the hallway, and they heard his huge feet crashing against the stairs as he made his way down to the street.

  “Sweet kid,” Brent said. “I liked him.” He checked the time on his handset. “Way too late to try the park today. Let’s try tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Vince replied, peeling off his dripping coat. “And if people have stopped trying to kill us for the day, maybe I can get out of these wet clothes.”

  Brent sat down heavily on his chair. “Maybe, Vince. Seems like we have a lull in the revenge proceedings. But you know what? The day ain’t over. Not yet. And in this place, anything could happen.”

  “Perhaps,” Rawlgeeb said, hanging up his coat. He crossed the room to inspect the new window, giving its handle an experimental tug. He tried again. “I don’t believe it!” he muttered. “The damned thing doesn’t even open.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Earth

  Jerry Martellini took a few faltering steps into the narrow alley then paused to glance over his shoulder. The sun was setting, and behind him, the street lights smeared their blue glow across the rain-slick sidewalk. Deep within the alley, something stirred. A huge brown rat scurried from its hiding place in a heap of moldering trash, but as it approached an old wooden crate, something flashed from the sable shadows, and the rat keeled over without a sound, its legs frozen in mid-step.

  Jerry swallowed. The Gloabon was here all right, just as she’d said she would be. But why on Earth had he agreed to meet her in this god-awful place? Was he out of his mind? He ran his hand across his brow. The brim of his hat shielded his face from the rain, but even so, his fingers came away from his forehead damp. Get a grip, Jerry, he told himself. Maybe she has something else–some new information. He licked his lips. The last batch of data had been dynamite: not only names
and allegations, but emails, bank statements, secret account numbers, audit trails. If he followed every lead, it would be enough to keep him in stories for weeks, and the feds had been happy to take copies of the evidence in return for tipping him off about any upcoming high-profile arrests.

  Jerry’s fellow reporters at The Times had been practically fighting over each other to buy him drinks, and when the Editor-in-Chief had seen the circulation figures, he’d presented Jerry with a bottle of Scotch. Real Scotch, and a single malt too. He’d heard of the brand, Talisker 25, and it must’ve cost more than Jerry made in a month. He was almost afraid to open it. Almost. I could use a shot of that whiskey right now, Jerry thought, almost tasting the smoky, golden liquid on his tongue. I need to steady my nerves and get this job done. I have no choice.

  Jerry set his mouth in a grim line. Yes, he was the man of the moment, but if he knew one thing about sensational scoops, it was that they never lasted. He could only ride the wave of his success so far before he fell out of favor. If he was going to keep playing the game at this level, he needed more inside information, more tips, more whispered secrets. It was like a drug, and he’d been hooked for years, his arteries hardened by the bitter stream of scandal that flowed in his veins. Tonight, he would tell Surrana that he needed one more juicy scrap of information, but in reality, he had a darker purpose. He needed to snag her on his hook and keep her dangling there. He couldn’t afford to let her go, not at any price; she was just too valuable.

  Pulling himself up to his full height, Jerry strode farther into the alley, picking his way carefully through the litter and stepping over the dead rat.

  “Hands where I can see them,” someone hissed.

  Jerry froze to the spot, his shoes grating against the grit, the sound echoing eerily in the alley’s cloaked emptiness. Moving carefully, he held out his arms, his hands open. “It’s me. Jerry. I came alone.” His courage rallied a little, and he added, “Why here? Couldn’t we go to a bar or something? I’m like a sore thumb standing here. If a cop sees me…”