Читать книгу Funk Toast and the Pan-Galactic Prom Show - Craig Nybo - Страница 14

Chapter 5

Packerhound slept with both his soul and his body. He slept like he hadn’t slept for a long time. In his sleep, he didn’t remember how Gaar and his evil girl, Iniad had abducted him along with anything they deemed valuable from his village. He didn’t think about the slave reprogramming station on planet Charr where Gaar had shuttled so many of Packerhound’s friends. He only slept. A light smile dressed his face as he passed away long minute after long minute in rare, dreamless slumber.

An alarm woke him after nearly thirty minutes of chirping. He sat up quickly, poker straight, looking up at the serrated pattern in the ceiling of his quarters where the alarm speaker peered down at him. He pushed off his bunk and moved to an intercom mounted in the wall. He cleared his throat and cracked his knuckles. He depressed a little square button and spoke into the box.

“Chi, we have an incoming communication.”

When he let up the button, through the intercom speaker, he heard Chi playing the last refrain of one of Goorn’s songs on his ChannelArch--another of Stig’s instruments. Packerhound had visited the Poison Nickels’s rehearsals many times. He had learned to appreciate their strange music, although he didn’t understand it. He hadn’t voiced his opinion on the matter, but he feared that it might be difficult for the Nickels to win over an audience with the odd percussive and shrill notes that made up Goorn’s songs. He hoped that, with some production input, he might be able to round out their sound and help them become more palatable to a larger audience.

“I’ll call all hands to the bridge,” Chi said.

“Copy,” Packerhound said into the intercom. He left his quarters and cut his way through the ship toward the bridge.

Packerhound waited several minutes for the rest of the Poison Nickels to assemble. He paced back and forth, not looking them in the eye as they made their way, one by one, into the room. he could feel the blood pulsing at his temples. The Poison Nickels had poured everything into this endeavor, into a distant hope that they might somehow get a gig at the Pan-Galactic Prom Show. Packerhound worried that he might have given them too much hope for something that they stood little chance of obtaining.

Goorn arrived on the bridge last, her eyes thoughtful as she made her way to a chair Packerhound had adapted for Ice Beetle anatomy. She sat down.

Everyone waited for Packerhound to say something, their eyes expectantly on him.

“While I waited for you to assemble,” Packerhound said, “I took the liberty of checking the identification signature of the incoming communication. The message came from the Collundrome. It is in fact signed with the official digital signature of none other than Slink Arrowheart.”

Everyone looked at one another, new anticipation crackling in the room.

Packerhound raised one of his blue hands and looked at the floor. He stood that way until the Ice Beetles calmed down. “I feel compelled to remind you that, although we have done everything we can to craft an effective demo package, the chances of the Poison Nickels opening the Pan-Galactic Prom Show are stratospherically dismal.”

“I have seen miracles in my day,” Chi said, standing from his augmented chair. “I have seen warriors stand against impossible odds and come out triumphant. I have seen brothers-in-arms wade through indescribable horrors and emerge unharmed, neither physically nor psychologically.”

Gnasher raised a rake and spoke up. “But let us not forget that we have also seen defeat--at the claws of the Voles.”

Chi fixed Gnasher with a staunch gaze. “Should Arrowheart refuse our request, I will not consider it a defeat. I will consider it nothing more than a setback.”

“Can we dispense with the rhetoric and view the communication?” Winkle said, rocking back and forth in his augmented chair, his body bursting with anticipation.

Before either Gnasher or Chi could open their pincers to say another word, Packerhound pushed a button on his console and the big screen blinked to life.

The official seal of the Collundrome filled the monitor, a glom of musical instruments and notation from distant worlds ingeniously crafted together into an intricate logo.

A booming voice came over the bridge speakers, male and foreboding. “This is a secured communication from the office of Slink Arrowheart, proprietor of the Collundrome Intergalactic Entertainment Venue. Any information in this communication is considered confidential. Duplication and rebroadcasting of any of the said information is punishable by order of the Red Star Integrated Order Consortium, a Star Class private directive enforcement agency to which Mr. Arrowheart and all of his holdings subscribe.”

“Blah, blah, blah, blah,” Packerhound said as he tried to bypass the disclaimer message by typing in a few circumventing codes. Nothing worked. Packerhound had to admit, Arrowheart must employ the very best encryption protocols. In the end, Packerhound gave up, sat back, and let the disclaimer run its course.

After another three minutes of warnings, the graphic logo disappeared and the screen went black.

Chi looked over at Packerhound, his eye-bones arched in confusion. Packerhound raised a finger, indicating for Chi to hang on, the message would soon follow. With such a long disclaimer, it made sense that the system had to load another digital package.

Just as Chi opened his mouth to say something, a face appeared on the big screen, a three eyed alien creature, slithery leather, glistening and dressed with baubles and ornaments. Pounds of exotic metal necklaces hung around his neck. All of the Poison Nickels recognized Slink Arrowheart from the newsreel they had watched earlier. Only this time, Slink was talking directly to them.

“Greetings to Packerhound of The Blood Drive. I dropped this communication into the interstellar waves to let you know that your demo package for the Nickels did in fact reach my desk. I’m not sure how you got past my security screening protocols; you must be a genius. I would have thrown out such an invasive brute force attack on my security; but I gotta hand it to you; you got stones, my brother from another mother. I don’t know who you are working for, but with protocol-breaking chops like yours, maybe you should come work for me.”

Packerhound smiled. He couldn’t help it.

“Anyway, Packee, I took the time to watch your digital demo package. I gotta say, your boys, the Poison Nickels, seem a little rough around the edges. Seems like you might have lifted that Dave Clark Five joint outright and remixed it yourself. And I’m not sure the Nickels had anything to do with it.”

The Poison Nickels looked at each other, crestfallen.

“But, that being said, most rock and roll outfits these days are flying on someone else’s fuel. Even though the fans don’t know it, what they buy isn’t necessarily what they think they’re paying for. So remix or not, faked or not, I like the Nickels’s angle.”

“Angle?” Chi said, looking crossly at Packerhound.

“The whole war-tattered planet underdog thing plays well as an opening act. And I think I’m gonna give your boys a shot. If they’re sitting right there with you, Packee, I wanna be the first to say, congratulations, guys. And don’t ever say I didn’t do anything for the downtrodden and weary.” Apparently Slink thought his last sentence was some kind of joke because he spent a good fifteen seconds laughing out loud and slapping himself with more than a few of his tentacles.

“Anyway, you boys better get here on the double. I’m giving you a forty-five minute set just before the Funk Toast1 Band hits the stage. Whether you pipe in that Dave Clark Five sound or employ your own sound, it makes no difference to me. Just make sure you thicken up the bedraggled planet bit. Make ‘em cry and we’ll all make money. Do I make myself clear? Happy flight and I’ll see you in a few days. Slink Arrowheart, out.”

Arrowheart’s mug blinked off and the Collundrome logo flashed back up on the screen. The deep, husky voice began reading another litany of disclaimers. Packerhound turned down the sound. He stood up and faced the Poison Nickels.

Chi and the others sat like bones on the bridge, their eyes on the enormous logo, not a word passing between them.

“Well, you got the gig,” Packerhound said. “Don’t you want to celebrate?”

“I don’t think he understands our cause,” Chi said. “I fear this might go very wrong.”

Packerhound crossed the floor to where he could stand directly in the middle of the Poison Nickels. “Look, guys, you have chosen to enter the entertainment industry. I hate to break it to you, but the business is full of scabs and Slink Arrowheart is one of the most shifty players in the pit.”

“Can we trust him?” Chi asked.

“No, you can’t trust him. You can’t trust anyone, not a producer, not an A&R person, nobody. They’re all looking out for number one, if you know what I mean. The only ones you can trust are you.” Packerhound looked at the ground. He looked at his hands. Something came over him, changing his mood, quieting him a bit. He looked back up at Chi. “And there’s me. You can always trust me.”

“What if they twist our message?” Goorn said. “I don’t want them to misinterpret the meaning behind my songs.”

Packerhound smiled at Goorn, who had become more and more endearing to him as he had gotten to know her. “They will only twist your words if it’s in their best interest. And you heard the man.” Packerhound gestured toward the big screen with a sweeping gesture. The logo, probably with the disclaimer being rattled off in the background, remained on screen. “He loves your angle.”

“It’s not an angle; it’s the truth,” Gnasher said, pounding a rake on a metal table in front of him.

“Truth or not, to Arrowheart it’s an angle. And it works for him. My best advice: ride the wave. Get up there at the Collundrome and tear their hearts out. Become famous. Draw in the emotional investiture of alien races across the universe and bring them to your world with new technology to blow the Voles to the fates, right off from Hull.”

Everyone sat still, considering Packerhound’s words.

Chi stood from his augmented chair and took on his full height. “Packerhound is right. We must wade through the swamp to get to the fertile soil. The Poison Nickels will debut their sound and their message at the Pan-Galactic Prom Show in three days, whether or not it falls in line with Mr. Arrowheart’s agenda.”

“Good show,” Packerhound said, patting Chi on the shell so hard that it emitted a hollow thunking sound.

“Now back to your quarters for private practice. We will assemble as an ensemble every 12 hours to rehearse the show. We are not going to fake our sound. No matter how the audience feels about our music, one thing will be assured; we will play with integrity,” Chi said.

The rest of the Poison Nickels nodded almost in unison as they listened to their commander.

“To your instruments,” Chi said.

Packerhound’s smile broadened as he watched the Poison Nickels leave the bridge. For the first time since Gaar had forced him into slavery, he had found a purpose. But he knew in the back of his mind that the Prom Show audience was discerning. And when they decided not to like an act, things could get brutal. Not to mention this year’s Prom Show had somehow drawn the attention of Knolar Jex, the most notorious pirate in the known universe. For all their heart and combat experience, the Ice Beetles were naive in many ways. Packerhound would have to act as their guardian.

1

Todd Feeney plays bari saxophone in the Funk Toast Band. Read his full biography at the end of this chapter.