After a few minutes of running through diagnostics and readying systems, Packerhound turned to Chi and nodded his head submissively, a wry smile crossing his lips. “I reserved the honor of ignition for you, my new captain.” He pointed at the largest and most prominent seat on the bridge, a massive throne, overdone in every way, seated pretentiously in the center of the room. “The red button, if you will.”
Chi trundled over to the throne. The rest of the Poison Nickels watched as he sat down on the magnificent seat. The captain’s chair lacked comfort; it had been built for creatures with vastly different anatomies than Ice Beetles. Chi made a mental note that he would have Stig unbolt the horrendous thing and put it in storage. Nevertheless, Chi sat in the chair, more as a tribute to Packerhound than out of vanity. He looked up at the over-sized screen. He glanced down at the big red button, the only button mounted on the throne’s rake-rest.
“I have set a course for the Collundrome,” Packerhound said.
Chi pushed the button. A bassy shake came from beneath the floor--from the engine room. The bridge vibrated momentarily, then the Blood Drive shot off into space. Chi had expected to be pulled by G-force. But once the Blood Drive jounced into motion, after a short disruption in counterpoise as the vessel reached hyper-light speed, a sense of grounding returned. All occupants of the ship could move about freely without any loss in equilibrium.
“Incredible,” Winkle said.
“There is still a small latency when the hyper-light-speed drives switch over to exotic matter fuel sources. I’m trying to get the jitters out. I think it’s a spindle alignment problem,” Packerhound said.
“You are a wonder,” Winkle said.
“Lots of practice under extreme duress, I suppose,” Packerhound said. “Now, you will want to know what you are in for; the Collundrome is a big venue and the Pan-Galactic Prom Show has been a yearly celebration for decades. Give me a moment to access my database.” Packerhound turned to his workstation and clicked away on the keyboard. The front viewing window went dark. A complex network of data leapt to the screen, so cryptic and quick that only Packerhound could understand the readout. “Hmmm, hmmmm,” Packerhound said as he navigated through the patches of coursing data. “Yes.” He pushed a button on his workstation. The screen locked. A new window opened, filling most of the viewing screen’s real-estate. “Here’s a news-feed from the Associated Cross-universal Press Consortium. I’m accessing their database with the search term Pan-Galactic Prom Show.”
A logo appeared on the screen: a gigantic rocket, outfitted with a camera on its nose cone. High-octane music blasted through the bridge’s speakers. A voice-over boomed out, low and rough, in an alien language that was nothing but a series of gubborous guts. The bridge’s translator protocol took over and bent the language so that all on the bridge could understand the newsreel.
“For the 21st year in a row, Slink Arrowheart, concert promoter, is poised to throw the ever-pretentious Pan-Galactic Prom Show. And lately, it seems that the place to discover the latest and greatest in entertainers is none other than an obscure, blue planet located in the interstellar neighborhood of Procyon, Altair, and Alpha Centauri, a little known planet in the Sol Solar System known as Earth. With such interplanetary sensations as Alice Cooper and The Beatles, it’s not a stretch to think that Pan-Galactic concert promoters are on the prowl for new talent from this unlikely planet, seated at the edge of the Milky Way. But as with most other installments of the Pan-Galactic Prom Show--held at the Collundrome since its infancy--this year’s event does not come without controversy. Critics, as always, are pointing spurning fingers at Collundrome owner and Prom Show promoter, Slink Arrowheart, accusing him of stirring up controversy that goes beyond the scope of his event.”
A photo of an alien creature flashed up on screen, a tentacled beast with three eyes, covered with a tri-lensed pair of sunglasses, accessorized in a glitter of twinkling necklaces fashioned in exotic metals. The title, Slink Arrowheart, Pan-Galactic Prom Show Promoter, appeared on the lower third of the photograph.
The reporter’s voice droned on. “Some blame Arrowheart for turmoil even on far-reaching planets.”
Video coverage from a war ridden region on a distant planet flashed up on screen. A small militant group traced their way across a broken street, strewn with overturned vehicles and rubble. Weapons rattled off barrages of gunfire as the small group made their way to cover.
The shaky footage cut to an interview with one of the beings from the battle-scarred area, a short alien creature with nearly black skin and a pair of stout antennae protruding from its temples. The creature spoke to an off-camera journalist. “There is no love lost between the Trimmicks here on Louridan and Arrowheart. His deliberate efforts to stir up old grudges at his so-called Prom Show two years ago have caused civil war. If you ask me, Arrowheart should be tried and hanged for war crimes.”
The video feed cut to the rear gates of a concert venue on Earth. A mob of teenage fans crushed against a series of beefy bodyguards. The camera whipped around to the venue’s exit. A young pop star, sparkling from head to foot with a gaudy, mirrored suit, moired with iridescent patterns, came from the venue’s exit. He flashed a smile of ice-white teeth at a throng of teenage girls. The girls went crazy, throwing up heart hand-symbols, screaming, some of them passing out in the crush and in the wonders of teenage longing.
“Controversy surrounding the Prom Show exploded yet again this year after the assassination of teenage pop star, Bieber, the Earthling entertainer slated to headline this year’s event.” The b-roll cut to Bieber shooting off a final wave at his fans and getting into a limousine. Seconds later, the limousine exploded, jettisoning fragments of metal and plastic into the crowd of adoring fans. The screams of fan lust turned into screams of terror as teenagers ran for cover, trampling one another, shoving away from the terrible scene. The reporter’s voice-over cut in over the b-roll. “Although Brennan Nix, a member of Bieber’s former band, The Five Fingers, has come out and actively claimed credit for the young pop star’s assassination, Bieber’s headline booking at this year’s Pan-Galactic Prom Show once again brought Slink Arrowheart back into the spotlight.”
The video reel cut to a docking hangar at the Collundrome. “As Arrowheart returned to the Collundrome from a talent scouting trip, he denied any allegations regarding Bieber’s untimely death.” A throng of reporters accosted Slink, shoving microphones into his face as he got out of his interstellar sports cruiser. Slink smiled as he greeted the cameras, straightening his tri-lensed sunglasses.
One of the reporters chimed in. “Mr. Arrowheart, the public needs to know; did you orchestrate Bieber’s slaying?”
Everyone stalled, waiting for Slink to answer.
Slink smiled and folded two sets of his tentacles over his slippery chest. “Come on, guys,” Slink said. “Do you really believe that I would have anything to do with killing such a rising talent? It’s bad for business, man.”
“You say bad for business,” another of the reporters said. “But box office receipts for the Prom Show this year have gone through the roof since Bieber’s assassination.”
Slink reached up with one of his tentacles and lowered his sunglasses. He rested all three of his eyes on the reporter who had made the comment. “What do you take me for?” Slink said, “Some kind of thug? I don’t know why sales are on the fly. The bump in business also came with my announcement that the Collundrome will be giving four percent of this year’s box office sales to the Bieber foundation.”
“There isn’t a Bieber foundation,” one of the reporters said.
Slink glanced sideways at the reporter, his smiles never fading. “There isn’t? Well, I’ll tell you what; the Collundrome will set up a Bieber foundation, then we will donate four percent of our proceeds to it. How does that sound?”
Some of the reporters laughed, others gnashed out a barrage of vicious questions.
“Look, fellas,” Slink said, raising four of his tentacles. “I’d love to stay and