Tales from the Captain’s Table by Keith R.A. DeCandido Read Free Book Online Page B

directly to a large, richly appointed dressing room. I was a celebrity, after all.
    The first thing I noticed was the costume. A big, awkward, fake-jewel-encrusted suit almost entirely covered in large yellow and orange feathers, obviously the plumage of some human-size Pelagian tropical bird. I put it on, hoping my musical mimicry would be more convincing if I at least looked the part—
     
    “Actually, Will, birds that derive from island habitats usually don’t grow to such large sizes,” Picard said in a quietly chiding tone.
    Riker’s only response was a pleading look.
    “Sorry,” Picard said. “Continue.”
     
    The concert itself began that afternoon, and went better than I expected—at least at first. Torr’ghaff had left an instrument with me down in the ship’s hold, and I’d spent the better part of three days not only listening to a good chunk of Urr’hilf’s hit parade, but also determining that the fingerings of his chosen instrument weren’t all that different from those of the trombone. It was too bad the thing didn’t have a slide, but you can’t have everything.
    With Deanna lounging on a settee that Torr’ghaff’s men had placed on the wooden stage beside me—she displayed what even I thought was a very convincing “adoring female fan” expression—I got through the first couple of numbers without a lot of flubs.
    But those tunes were the easy ones. By the third number, maybe ten minutes into the set, I knew was floundering, and I could hear enough murmuring out in the bleachers to tell me that the audience was quickly becoming aware that something wasn’t right. Deanna continued to do her best to dispel that by maintaining an expression of sustained uncritical admiration.
    But as Thaddius “Old Iron Boots” Riker once said, “you can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit.” There was only so much even Deanna could do. It was up to me and my performance to keep these bloodthirsty pirates from booing and then rioting.
    And I knew I was failing, even as I lapsed into a rendition of “Stardust,” an old jazz standard from Earth. I hoped the crowd would accept it as one of Urr’hilf’s new, experimental compositions.
    Nope. As though thinking with one mind, the pirates who composed the audience—apparently thousands of them—rose from their benches. They surged toward the stage, trampling one another in their rage, which got them het up even further.
    I dropped my instrument on the settee beside Deanna, and helped her to her feet. “We have to get out of here,” I said, shedding the cumbersome, feather-and-jewel-covered jacket.
    Holding her hand, I moved with her toward the wings. A trio of burly pirates blocked our way, their blades extended. We turned toward the other side of the stage. Captain Torr’ghaff and another three armed pirates stood in our path, murder in their eyes.
    “Now would be a really good time for an emergency beam-out,” Deanna said.
    The angry shriek of the crowd crescendoed as the first of the pirates reached the stage and hauled themselves up onto it.
    “Looks like we’re in for a real fight, Arr’ghenn,” I said.
    I saw that even Torr’ghaff himself—who must have been pretty angry about his big, profitable concert event falling apart—was drawing a bead on us with his pistol. Shouting a warning to Deanna, I pulled her down behind what little cover the settee provided. Chunks of wood and brass and fabric flew as a metal projectile almost parted Deanna’s hair.
    We needed to get the hell out of there. But we needed weapons even more.
    I turned toward the stage just in time to see the first of the enraged audience members come barreling toward me. Like a lot of the Pelagian pirates, he was a nasty piece of work, and stood a good head taller than I did. Glancing at the settee, I saw the klap’paspech, which Torr’ghaff had perforated with his gun. I grabbed it.
    The approaching pirate didn’t use a lot of science when he swung his