Dead Men Don't Disco

by Michael Campling

  An unexpected surge of happiness flushed Rawlgeeb’s cheeks. One of the team! Yes, Halbrook was flattering him; that was obvious. But even so, it was an enjoyable feeling. “We don’t get this kind of treatment in the Gloabon Government. No chauffeur-driven limousines or VIP lounges, and certainly no private shuttles. The biggest perk I ever got was an employee of the month badge. It was made out of plastic, and one edge was cracked. And some of the letters had worn away so, at first glance, it seemed to say: ploy of the moth. It was a…a disappointment.” He sniffed loudly. “Still, I miss the company of other Gloabons. I miss the baths. And the food.” He patted his stomach. “Mainly the food. I haven’t had a decent reptile since I left the station. I don’t suppose you happen to have a lizard about the place, do you? I could really go for a gecko about now.”

  Halbrook pursed his lips. “Regrettably, we’re all out of reptiles at the moment. But the shuttle flight won’t be long, and then you’ll be able to eat your fill. Ah, here’s your escort now.”

  Rawlgeeb looked around as Sergeant Carter appeared in the doorway, holding the glass door open. “Sir, if you’d like to come with me, I’ll see you aboard.”

  “Thank you.” Rawlgeeb shook Halbrook firmly by the hand. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  “No problem,” Halbrook replied, his voice wavering and strangely high. “Safe journey.”

  What a nice guy, Rawlgeeb thought as he made for the door. He seemed genuinely affected. I do believe he had a tear in his eye.

  “This way, sir.” Carter set a brisk pace, and Rawlgeeb followed, hurrying through the lobby and out into the grounds.

  “Where is the launch facility?” Rawlgeeb asked. “I don’t see it.”

  “Underground, sir,” Carter replied. “We’ll use this entrance.” He stopped by a squat building, its gleaming metal door smooth and completely blank. Carter pressed his hand against a discreet touch panel, and the door slid open to reveal a brightly lit but windowless room, its far wall marked only by two elevator doors, one of which slid open as though anticipating their arrival.

  “I guess this is it,” Rawlgeeb murmured. “This is really happening.”

  “Without a doubt,” Carter said. “Captain Levinson is piloting the shuttle, and I’ll be your co-pilot. One way or another, we’ll get you up to The Gamulon, sir. You can count on it.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Aboard The Kreltonian Skull – Andromeda Class Battle Cruiser

  Official Status: Discombobulated.

  Ship’s Log: Earth Orbit – Skeleton Crew.

  Zeb’s gaze flicked up from his console. “Oops!”

  “What have you done?” Dex demanded from his seat at the helm. “You’re supposed to be having a bit of harmless target practice.”

  “Yes,” Zeb admitted. “But the Gloabons started their own practice, and…well, I just couldn’t resist.”

  Dex glowered at him from across the bridge. “Zeb, tell me that you didn’t shoot at the Gloabons’ targets.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought…” Zeb looked down for a moment. “I am unable to retrieve a satisfactory explanation for my actions.”

  “That’s what you said when you broke my media player,” Dex grumbled. “A very convenient excuse.” He heaved a sigh. “Oh well, I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm. They’re not going to overreact to a tiny thing like that.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Zeb said slowly. “I hate to tell you this, but we are under attack. Incoming missiles. I recommend evasive maneuvers.”

  “What?” Dex stared at his console. “Goddammit! You’re right! I’ve got six missiles on my scope. Prepare for evasive maneuvers. Klegg, when I give you the word, hit that button. The red one.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t know what you mean,” Klegg cried. “I’m color-blind.”

  “Now he tells me,” Dex muttered. “Stimps, do you see the red button?”

  Stimps, his expression pinched, raised his hand slowly and pointed. “That one?”

  “You’ve got it. Now, when I say the word, and not before, I want you to press it once, all right?” Dex hesitated. “And then let go of it immediately afterward. That’s very important.”

  “Aye, sir,” Stimps replied. “Standing by.”

  Zeb turned to Nailsea. “I’m going to attempt to shoot down the missiles, so I need you to run the shields and countermeasures. Are you ready?”

  Nailsea licked his lips. “I’m ready. Wait a second.” He stared down at his hands, his lips moving silently. “Yes. I’ve got my system all worked out.”

  “Stimps, hit that button,” Dex yelled. “Punch it!” The bridge lurched as Dex sent the ship into a tight turn, a dull roar rising from the floor, the wall panels rattling as if suddenly coming to life and yearning to be free.

  Zeb held tight to his console. “I’ll help you, Nailsea. I’ll call out what you should do as the missiles come in.”

  “Right. Okay. Good. Missiles. No problem.” Nailsea scraped his hand down his face as the ship’s movements sent him swaying from side to side. “Everything will be okay,” he murmured. “This is no harder than making a really good chowder. With death limpets. And a blood blossom salad on the side.”

  Zeb stared at him. “You’ll be fine, Nailsea. Fine. You’re an officer now, remember? You are Ensign Nailsea, and you’re here on The Skull, the finest ship in the fleet.”

  Nailsea stiffened his spine. “Aye, sir. I’m ready.”

  “Good, because you’re up.” Zeb focused his attention on the ship’s cannons. The incoming missiles were equipped with some kind of Gloabon stealth technology, and he couldn’t get a weapons lock. He’d have to fire by eye, and the chances of him making a hit were not good. But he was a better shot than anyone else on the bridge, and he could direct Nailsea at the same time. Gripping the fire control triggers, Zeb aimed and squeezed hard while calling out the bizarre menu of countermeasures he’d agreed with Nailsea: “Salt, salt, baste, garlic powder, garlic powder.”

  Nailsea responded immediately. “Aye, sir. All spices, I mean, all countermeasures deployed.”

  Zeb grinned as he fired the cannons, his shots blasting a missile into oblivion. “That was fast work, Nailsea. Well done. Unfortunately, I only hit one missile, and the others rerouted to evade our defenses. They’re coming in again. Here we go!” Firing the cannons once more, he called out, “Baste, baste, paprika, paprika, paprika.”

  “I think we need more salt,” Nailsea said. “That one almost worked last time. And the basting was good too.”

  “Agreed. Pile on the salt, Ensign, and stand by to baste.”

  “Aye, sir. Salt going in!”

  “Yes!” Zeb winged a missile, sending it spiraling into space. Meanwhile, Nailsea’s instincts proved correct; his spontaneous mixture of countermeasures wasn’t a tactic they’d ever taught in the academy, but it was doing its job. Of the remaining four missiles, two had lost guidance, veering away into the void, but that still left two, and they could be enough to cripple the ship. “What else have you got?”

  “Only the ginger,” Nailsea replied, “but I’m not fond of it myself.”

  “For flek’s sake!” Zeb snapped. “We’re not eating it! It’s an array of electromagnetic interference generators. Try it. Now.”

  “Ginger deployed,” Nailsea said in an injured tone. “If that doesn’t work, I can go back to the salt.”

  Zeb shook his head. “Too late. The missiles are too close. If the ginger doesn’t work, you’d better get ready to flip the shields. I’ll use the cannons until the last second.”

  “Standing by to flip.” Nailsea’s hands moved over his console, his whole body tense. “No damage yet. Still no damage. Zero damage to report.”

  “You don’t need to…keep…saying…that,” Zeb said as he let fly with the cannons. “Dammit! They’re too fast.”

  “We’re hit!” Nailsea yelled. “Damage to the sticky-out thing on the bow! I don’t know what to do!”

  “They’re targeting ou
r sensor arrays,” Zeb replied. “The other missile is going to hit the aft sensors. Flip the shield to protect the stern.”

  “Flipping now, sir.” Nailsea gasped. “It worked. The shield held. No damage from that last missile at all.” He exhaled noisily, casting a sheepish glance at Zeb. “I’m sorry that the other one got through. I knew that ginger wasn’t going to work. If I’d had some decent black potato wine, it would’ve been different.” He smacked his lips. “There’s nothing like a good splash of gut-rot to save a sauce.”

  “I have no idea what to say to that,” Zeb replied. “But anyway, you did well, Nailsea. Very well. Unfortunately, the battle may not be over. The Gamulon is heavily armed. They could launch missiles at us all day, but our countermeasures are now seriously depleted.”

  Nailsea was about to reply when the ship lurched, the floor shuddering beneath their feet.

  “Evasive maneuvers complete,” Dex cried out. “We have returned to our previous position.” He glanced across at the nav panel. “Or something very like it. At any rate, we’re still between the fleet and the space station. Zeb, any bright ideas for our next move?”

  Zeb flipped through his tactical displays. “That’s strange.”

  “Oh no,” Dex moaned. “I don’t like the sound of that. I may regret asking this, but what is strange?”

  “There appears to be a shuttle approaching The Gamulon.” Zeb pursed his lips. “Sending an unarmed vessel into a battle zone is not logical. It suggests that the occupant is someone of great importance to the Gloabons.”

  “Unless they don’t know about the battle,” Nailsea offered. “We all have our comms blacked out, so maybe they’ve blundered in by mistake.”

  “I hardly think that’s likely, do you?” Zeb shook his head. “No, this must be a high-ranking Gloabon or a representative from Earth. The shuttle doesn’t look like Gloabon tech, so the latter is more likely.”

  “But it won’t be able to land while the space station has its shields up,” Dex said thoughtfully. “I suppose the Gloabons might use a tractor beam to pull it in. They could leave the shields up for that.”

  For a moment, no one spoke, then Cricklade broke the silence: “Sir, I could hail the shuttle and warn them of the danger. I’ve got the comms pretty much figured out.”

  “Do it,” Dex said. “Zeb, lower the shields for a minute. Cricklade, contact the shuttle. Tell them it’s an emergency message and put them on screen.”

  “Aye, sir,” Cricklade replied. “Now, screen…screen…screen. I’ve seen it somewhere. Ah, here it is. Contacting the shuttle now, sir.”

  Dex faced the screen, his shoulders square, and his hands clasped behind his back. Even so, he flinched when the magnified image of the shuttle’s pilot appeared. The man was clad in a combat style black helmet, his face concealed beneath a tinted visor.

  “This is Commander Dex of the Andel-Kreit battle cruiser, The Kreltonian Skull,” Dex began, his cheeks coloring a little at the promotion he’d just awarded himself. “You are entering a conflict zone. Turn back and head for Earth, or you may be fired upon.”

  The pilot’s visor flicked upward to reveal a human, his expression stern. “This is Captain Levinson. Please be advised that we are a civilian craft with a single passenger. Further, we are traveling under the protection of the Gloabon Government and the United Nations on Earth.” He paused and adopted a less formal tone. “I’ll level with you, Commander. We were unaware of any conflict when we launched. We’re carrying a passenger, and we are unarmed. We both have our jobs to do, but we’ll be out of your hair in a couple of minutes. Fair enough?”

  Dex bristled. How dare he talk to me like that? We’re practically at war, and he’s chatting as if we’re best friends. Behind him, Nailsea muttered, “I told you. They blundered in.” Dex pretended he hadn’t heard, making a mental note to tell Nailsea and the others to clam up whenever the screen was in use. “Captain Levinson,” Dex said pointedly, “if you’re a civilian, why do you use that rank?”

  Levinson’s smile faded. “I earned it. But we’re not here to discuss my military background. I can assure you that I am employed by a civilian organization, The Gloabon Institute of Technology. We request safe passage for our civilian passenger, and while our vessel is unarmed, it is not defenseless. Firing on us would do no good, but it will certainly elicit reprisals from The Gamulon. I hope that is understood.”

  “Do not threaten us,” Dex warned.

  “No threat intended,” Levinson replied. “We are almost at our destination. Thank you for your cooperation. Levinson out.”

  The screen went dark, and Dex turned around, his face tight with rage. “Can you believe it? The cheek of the man. Get those shields back up.”

  Zeb tilted his head to one side. “His request was not unreasonable, Commander. We have nothing to gain by firing on civilians.”

  Dex waved his objections aside. “I know. It’s just…what are we doing here? What’s the point of having an enormous warship if we can’t even turn back a shuttle?”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late to do anything,” Zeb said. “As predicted, The Gamulon has locked its tractor beam on the shuttle.”

  Klegg thumped the nav console with his fist. “Oops! I think I hit the map by accident. Erm, that’s better.” He looked up, his eyes lit with excitement. “But that’s not what I was going to say.”

  “What is it, Klegg?” Dex asked. “We’re kind of busy here, trying to figure out our strategy.”

  “But that’s just it,” Klegg blurted. “I know what we can do! We can grab that shuttle with our tractor beam.”

  Dex started to laugh, but then his expression grew serious. “I suppose you’re right. We can’t turn them back, but we can stop them from going forward. Our tractor beam is as powerful as theirs. Probably stronger.” He turned to Zeb. “Would that work? What do you say?”

  “It’s feasible,” Zeb replied. “Though I’m not sure of the purpose of such a move.”

  “Dammit! It’s to teach them a lesson,” Dex snapped. “Zeb, lock a tractor beam on that shuttle. Maximum strength.”

  “Aye, sir,” Zeb said smoothly, his fingers dancing over his console. “And will we be hoisting a scary flag and daubing slogans on the hull in blood?”

  “What?”

  Zeb smiled. “Just a joke. Doesn’t hurt to brighten the mood when you’re engaged in a little light piracy. I believe it’s traditional.”

  “Just get the tractor beam activated before it’s too late,” Dex snapped. “We’ll save the jokes for afterward.”

  “When we’re burying the treasure, perhaps,” Zeb quipped, then he held up his hands. “Don’t get mad. Our tractor beam is now locked on that shuttle. They’re not going anywhere.”

  “Got them!” Dex thumped his fist into his palm. “Cricklade, are they trying to hail us?”

  “Aye, sir. Shall we lower the shields and put the message on screen?”

  “No. Our shields stay up,” Dex said darkly. “Leave the bastards hanging.”

  “Maybe we should board them and steal their loot,” Zeb put in cheerfully. “Shiver me bulkheads, we could slash their gizzards.”

  Dex looked Zeb up and down. “Remind me to book you into the workshop later. I think something must’ve rattled loose during the evasive maneuvers.”

  “There’s no need to be like that,” Zeb said. “Seriously though, Dex, it might be best to let the shuttle go now. I think you’ve made your point.”

  “Oh no. This is only the beginning. And as it happens, you’ve given me an idea. While we’ve got the shuttle locked in our tractor beam, do you think we could zing over there?”

  Zeb started to shake his head then seemed to change his mind. “Ordinarily, The Gamulon’s tractor beam would prevent us from boarding the shuttle, but in this case…it’s an interesting proposition.” Zeb focused on his console, humming a jaunty tune as he typed.

  “Can it be done?” Dex demanded. “Time is tight, Zeb. And by the way, you can cut out th
e space shanties for a start.”

  Zeb lifted his head with a start. “Oh, but What shall we do with an intoxicated helmsman? is my favorite.” He took a breath and sang, “Throw him in the airlock until he’s frozen, early in the day shift.” He grinned. “I know all thirty-seven verses. Would you like to hear them?”

  Dex pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we zing onto the shuttle–yes or no?”

  “Yes!” Zeb announced. “As I suspected, our tractor beam is interacting with the Gloabons’ system, creating a harmonic resonance pattern, which in turn has generated a feedback loop. I believe that this will adversely affect the graviton wave amplifiers in the Gloabons’ tractor beam initializer.”

  “Yes, of course. The interference will make a complete hash of their security protocols.” Dex ran his hands over his scalp. “Zeb, lower our shields and then check the zinger. I want a solid lock on the passenger compartment of that shuttle. I don’t want to wind up in a bathroom cubicle.”

  Zeb’s face fell. “That was one unfortunate incident, Dex. Are you going to keep harping on it forever?”

  “Check it, then check it again,” Dex said. An involuntary shudder ran through him. “It took me a month to get the smell of disinfectant out of my left boot. And they were good boots too. Practically brand new. I’d just got them worn in.”

  Zeb pouted, but instead of arguing, he worked in silence for a moment, and when he looked up again, his expression was neutral. “Shields are down, and our personal transport system has a good lock. One hundred percent confirmed.”

  “Excellent.” Dex raised his voice. “Listen up, everyone. Along with Lieutenant Commander Zeb, I’m about to board that shuttle. We’ll zing over, and then, when I give you the signal, you’ll zing us back. Nailsea, Zeb will show you what to do. It’s very simple.”

  Cricklade raised her hand. “Sir, with respect, I don’t think you should leave us like this. You and Zeb are the only proper officers.”

  “That’s right,” Nailsea chipped in. “We can’t have the only qualified officers hopping off the ship. Anything could happen.”