Screams
"By the Ruling Fathers...people actually call this music?"
"I dunno. Wouldn't have thought people called this anything."
Kachinsky hadn't figured Gabriel Tosh to be many things. Not from lack of trying, but simply because the pirate/Spectre had been too much of an enigma to figure out. But with Saturday night having come to the Hyperion's cantina, the engineer had realized two things in the past twenty-four hours. One was that Tosh was part of a band called Tosh and the Screamers. The other was that the "Screamers" part of that title was quite appropriate.
"Um...wasn't English made the standard language over two centuries ago?" Hall asked, wincing as the band's lyrics.
"You tell me," answered Kachinsky, wishing he'd brought his ear plugs with him from the armoury. "Think Toshy might have missed out on the memo."
"Doubt it," answered Hall, putting her hands to her ears. "He doesn't seem like the type to miss anything."
"Yeah...I bet."
Watching as the Spectre sung something about a wailing Bob Marley, Kachinsky wondered how things had come to this. Being a grease monkey, he hadn't stepped foot on any part of New Folsom, let alone the prison that had stood on the planet for fifty years before the Raiders busted it open. He'd celebrated initially, recognising it as both a strike against the Dominion directly and a moral victory for everyone who had spoken out against Mengsk's rule. What he hadn't counted on was the ship's rumour mill bringing him tales of a Dominion Ghost having contacted Raynor beforehand, claiming that Tosh's fellow Spectres were locked up in the gulag and that they were universally psychotic. Oh, and now those same Spectres were in his armoury, standing there silently like something out of science fiction.
Next thing I know, we'll have entered the realm of space fantasy.
Taking a sip of his glass of Old No. 8, Kachinsky listened as the final lyrics of the 'song' were sung, something about death and wondering whether he'd be the one doing the dying. Tosh didn't seem unhinged, but if there was one thing that the last five years had taught the engineer, it was that if something was tall, dark and ugly, it probably was tall, dark and ugly. Oh, and probably malignant too.
"So..." said Hall gingerly, the lack of music allowing the engineer and bridge officer to engage in proper conversation. "What are they like?"
"Huh?"
"The Spectres," said the officer, taking a sip of her Tyrador Mindbender. "I hear they're hanging around in your armoury."
"Swann's armoury," Kachinsky corrected. "And as for the Spectres...well, what can I say? They're like Tosh, except they're even more silent, even more dark and even more freaky. About the only good thing I can say about them is that they don't break out in death metal on Saturday nights."
"...wouldn't that make them less freaky?"
Kachinsky snorted. A waste of No. 8 as it was.
The seats of the cantina were simple stools, so the engineer couldn't lean back and let Dim Lights carry him off to a better place. Leaning forward on the table was close enough to such relaxation however, enough to let him soak in the sights and sounds of home. Cade was up to level three of The Lost Viking, Earl was complaining about a bad smell and Annabelle was being too polite to inform him that said smell was coming from his armpits. There were certainly less savoury people around, such as Tosh up near the dancing holo and that unsavoury Findlay character, but overall, the atmosphere was quite pleasant.
"You know, I think this might be good for them," said Hall suddenly.
"Huh?" Kachinsky asked, snapped out of his reverie.
"The Spectres," repeated Hall, brushing aside some of her hair with one hand while tracing the rim of her glass with her other. "Coming up here."
Kachinsky remained silent, not sure whether to laugh, indulge her or head over to Annabelle and rescue her from Earl's scent. Unfortunately, he delayed too long. So with Hall staring at him, waiting for a response, he was compelled to give one.
"Yeah?" asked the engineer slowly. "Why's that?"
"The music," said the officer simply. "I mean, listening to Tosh's, and then listening to our jukebox...well, it all makes sense. Why the Screamers...scream."
"...Hall, how many mindbenders have you had?"
"Think about it," Hall pressed, her beverage now to one side of the table while both of her hands were rested on its centre. "Tosh's music is like screaming, right? Well, considering what the Spectres have been through, maybe that's not surprising. Maybe they need to hear a sound that's actually got melody to it."
"What, like E minor?"
"No, C major."
Hall had called the engineer's bluff. And desperately wishing for an interruption that Saturday night would never bring, Kachinsky knew he'd have to deal with it.
"What are you suggesting?" the engineer asked. "I bring the jukebox down to the armoury?"
"No, that you bring the Spectres up here," answered Hall. "You know, treat them as humans rather than just another armoury weapon or tool."
"But why me? Why not-..."
"Because someone has to do it, you Neanderthal!" Hall exclaimed, further confirming Kachinsky's expressions that she'd had enough to drink for one night. "Spectres, Ghosts...they're nothing but weapons to the Dominion! You want the screams to stop? Start treating them like human beings Kachinsky, even if you start out small. Because someone has to do it and if Mengsk's puppets are ever going to get their lives back, it should start on the Hyperion!"
It was amazing how sound carried through the cantina, even with Sweet Home Alabama now playing. It was even more amazing that Hall could get to her feet and remain on them. But what was most amazing of all...
...she was right.