Funk Toast and the Pan-Galactic Prom Show. Craig Nybo
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Chi and Winkle sat behind Packerhound as he made a few last modifications to the demo kit he planned to send to Slink Arrowheart. He packaged everything together, including the rock video, bios on each of the Poison Nickels, a short document detailing their cause, penned by Goorn and translated by Packerhound’s language protocols.
Packerhound included a video message from Chi, detailing the plight of the Poison Nickels. He had helped Chi to spin the message in such a way that it would draw sympathy from the audience and, hence, profits to the Collundrome. Chi didn’t argue. He just delivered the script a handful of times until Packerhound felt that he had what he needed.
With the demo kit all wrapped up, Packerhound looked over his shoulder at Chi and Winkle. “Are you gentlemen ready to make Ice Beetle history?”
“We are only concerned with the preservation of our species,” Chi said.
“Whatever,” Packerhound said. He pushed the send button and watched a quick tick-off as the data package spun off into space. Once the message left the Blood Drive’s computers, Packerhound rocked back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest in satisfaction.
“What now?” Chi asked.
“Now we wait. Arrowheart should receive the demo kit within two days. We are five days away from the Collundrome.”
“What if he doesn’t like us?” Winkle said.
“My only hope is that he contacts the Blood Drive personally. I can be quite persuasive,” Packerhound said, swiveling his chair around so he could face the two members of the Poison Nickels.
“Thank you for everything, Packerhound,” Chi said.
“My indelible pleasure, my friends.”
With the demo packet off, the Poison Nickels spent most of their time practicing their instruments. Day by day, hour by hour, they became more proficient at the musical technology Stig had provided, performing the songs Goorn had crafted. It came down to time--time that the Poison Nickels’ families back on Hull did not have.
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;