Funk Toast and the Pan-Galactic Prom Show. Craig Nybo
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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.
Chapter 7
Meanwhile, Somewhere in the Collundrome Asteroid City...
Decompression before debarking the space bus took nearly an hour. Butch, Twana, Mindee Lee, and Bieber underwent a series of tests and procedures. InterTran knew about every single complication that could arise from acclimation to alien atmospheres. They planned for every contingency, partially for the safety of their passengers, partially to avoid InterTran lawsuits and out-of-court settlements.
After the InterTran clinicians had finished working them over with rigorous health checklists, given them a series of shots, and left them with bags of pills and instructions to avoid a litany of alien-born viruses, Twana and the others made their way to the debarking ramp.
As they exited the space bus, a wash of sensory overload hit them. The hangar bustled with activity. Creatures of many alien races worked the space station, driving vehicles from task to task, refueling and repairing spacecraft, unloading cargo, directing small and large ships to parking berths.
A creature with four arms and a face so white that Twana thought she might be a mime stood at the bottom of the ramp, both sets of arms crossed over her chest and belly. As the first of the space bus passengers reached her, she flicked a small device attached to her throat and spoke up. She used an alien language, but the little box translated her speech.
“Greetings, visitors to the Collundrome. We welcome you with open arms.” She spread all four of her arms expressively. “We expect sixty-thousand guests for this year’s event so it is important, for your safety, that you all register with the admissions office where you will receive a packet that will outline the many sights and wonders you will experience while visiting the Collundrome. As you know, due to tragic events of late on planet Earth, we have had to replace the headlining act with a new rock sensation. We are excited to present Funk Toast1 at their Pan-Gallactic Prom Show debut.”
A few Funk Toast fans shouted out their approval.
A crew of Bieber fans hissed out their disappointment.
“Now, if you will follow me, I will get you to admissions. Once you have watched a brief instruction video and picked up your packets, you will be free to walk about our little, underground city.
The four armed alien led the space bus passengers across the hangar through a large door. She conducted them down a hallway into an enormous elevator. Nobody made eye contact as they descended deep into the asteroid space venue.
The elevator door opened to a hustling center of commerce and activity. Shops and restaurants festooned the streets. Everything shined. The Collundrome management spared no expense when it came to the cleanliness and presentation of their little fabricated city, bored out of an asteroid.
The four-armed alien raised a hand and spoke up loud so everyone could hear. “This is the Collundrome’s main terminal. Here you will find a variety of activities, food, and other amusements.