Читать книгу Funk Toast and the Pan-Galactic Prom Show - Craig Nybo - Страница 16

Chapter 6

The Collundrome sat inert in space, a monolithic asteroid and entertainment venue. As the Blood Drive approached, all was dark. But Slink Arrowheart had brought in a team of engineers to outfit the asteroid with millions of credits worth of bling. During shows the whole place lit up, sending laser streams, lights, and sound into space. The engineers had even outfitted the main arena at the heart of the venue with a costly atmospheric generator so the roof could be retracted and spectators could look into space without even a sheet of glass to impair their view. Arrowheart’s improvements had made the venue a hot spot for the best in deep space entertainment.

The Poison Nickels sat on the bridge as Packerhound worked the Blood Drive’s pulse navigation system.

“It’s enormous,” Goorn said, unable to take her eyes off the mammoth asteroid space station.

“It’s a space city,” Packerhound said. “It’s completely self sufficient for at least five years. More than ten thousand beings reside at the Collundrome year round.”

A well of sudden and unexpected intimidation flowed over Chi. Were they up for this? Maybe they had gotten in deeper than they had anticipated.

Packerhound noticed Chi’s deference, having learned to read the limited facial expressions of the Ice Beetles. “When it comes down to it,” Packerhound said. “It’s just another stage, just another venue. It’s like playing at Durk’s Freaky Lounge in White Lake City, only bigger.”

“We’ve never played at Durk’s Freaky Lounge,” Chi said. “We’ve never played anywhere.”

“Relax. All you can do is your best.” Packerhound went back to the controls.

“You have clearance to dock in Bay 15,” a synthetic female voice said over the bridge’s COM.

A bright light turned on, marking one of the thirty docking hangars along the girth of the Collundrome: Bay 15.

“You got it, pretty lady,” Packerhound said. He eased the controls and slanted the Blood Drive toward the light. An enormous hangar door slid open, revealing a series of lighted landing pads of various sizes.

As the Blood Drive entered the hangar, a landing cart, fixed with a pair of yellow oscillating lights, guided the ship to a suitable landing pad. Once at the pad, a gangly creature with an elongated head, dressed in a black uniform, got out of the landing cart. She shined a pair of flashlights up at the Blood Drive then down onto the pad.

Packerhound eased the ship into position and touched down on the metal deck. A series of hydraulic hisses, mechanical thunks, spins, and indicator beeps sounded off as the Blood Drive’s landing gear took on the weight of the ship. Once settled, Packerhound let out a sigh of relief; the Blood Drive spent most of its time in open space; he was out of practice when it came to landing. Not to mention that he had made a few untested improvements to the landing sequence after a near mishap on one of Gaar’s surface raids.

“Please send an escort to your ship’s entrance,” the mechanical voice said through the Blood Drive bridge’s speaker system. “An inspection team will require access to your ship and to its systems before debarking.”

Packerhound turned to the others. “Well, here we go. You stay here on the bridge or go back to your quarters. I will meet the inspection team. This could take quite a while.”

“This is a last chance to rehearse, I move that we take it,” Stig said. The rest of the Poison Nickels agreed. One by one, they filed out of the bridge and made their way to the rehearsal studio.

•

Packerhound met a quintet of black uniformed creatures, each from a different planet, at the Blood Drive’s entrance ramp. He smiled and raised one of his blue hands in salutation. The creatures looked him up and down, glancing at his hand but otherwise ignoring Packerhound’s play at hospitality.

One of the creatures, a runt, furry being with black beads for eyes, pushed a button on a small speaker he wore around his neck. As the being spoke, in a rasp of slicks and slurps too complicated for most language protocols, the device translated. “We require admittance to your ship. Our directives require bio and system scans for possible contagions.”

“Look little guy--”

“I resent that,” the small, furry creature said. “I lead this inspection team due to my prowess in combat.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean any offense. What do I call you?” Packerhound said, extending a hand.

“Names are of no consequence. We require admittance to your vessel.”

“Be my guest,” Packerhound said, indicating the entrance with a long gesture.

The runt, furry creature led the other members of his team, each saddled with various inspection devices--scanners, thumpers, analytical hardware--strapped to their backs, up the ramp and onto the Blood Drive.

As the Collundrome inspection team made their way from deck to deck and room to room, flicking on their devices, panning their scanning fields against walls, over cargo, over beds and personal items, Packerhound made his way to the rehearsal deck.

The Poison Nickels finished up one of Goorn’s songs as Packerhound entered the room. He found a place to sit. As they started another song, Packerhound cocked his head to the side. Uniqueness: that could definitely be said of the Poison Nickels’s sound. Different alien races employed various biological methods to hear. Some, like humans, possessed tissue drums and micro spicules to translate sound waves into memory. Others felt more than heard, taking in beats and vibrations with nervous sensors on the skin. Others couldn’t hear at all. Hundreds of differences in senses of hearing caused new diversity when it came to music and its interpretation. Music from one race was nothing but grunted out noise to another. So Packerhound couldn’t judge the Poison Nickels’s sound. To him it made little sense. Stig’s instruments issued a series of percussive pounces and chimes, along with atonal riffs and ungrounded lyrics. Packerhound could only hope that the crowd at the Prom Show would interpret the music of the Poison Nickels well.

As the band wrapped up another of Goorn’s songs, Packerhound applauded. “Say, that’s sounding great. I’m sure you are going to knock ‘em dead.”

The ship inspection went on for another two hours. The Poison Nickels used the time to work through the forty-five minute set they intended to play at the Prom Show. This would be their last rehearsal before they hit the stage. They couldn’t afford even the most minuscule error to creep into the mix.