Internally, I had to admit that I sympathized. In fact, I felt a personal score to settle with whatever demmie programmed this mission’s batch of interpreter buds. But right now, the Spertin was simply whining. I reached for the blaster, myself, and gave the dial a spin. “So many nanos, so little time,” I hummed.

“All right, all right!” He pulled his set of the fangs from a pocket, inserted them and gave us the old, Dragonlord leer of biting anticipation.

“There! Happy?”

“So long as you do your best to represent the genuine interests of the Cal’mari vampire caste, then sure. Happy enough.”

With a faux-Transylvanian accent he sneered – “I vant to dreenk some blod!”

“Don’t get cocky.” But I nodded. “Here. Have some pizza and diet cola.”

Earl slipped into his role so well that he whimpered about the late afternoon sun. In moments, the efficient demmie crew erected a gay, striped canopy over our table and conclave, while the locals sampled Earth’s most renowned dish. Cuspitui, in particular yowled appreciation… along with a request to sample some of the legendary delicacy, chocolate.

Captain Ohm called the gathering to order, giving first speaking role to the renowned Professor Ping, who summarized the planetary situation with admirable succinctness, bringing our reunited crewmates from the Clever Gamble up-to-date on the tragic dilemmas of this troubled world, where death was merely another life transition – kind of like a zorinthian molting, or a dorvish pupation, or a bar mitzvah. Only with one small, added inconvenience – that the departed would then turn around and try to eat the bereaved.

Ping then invited Dr. Katske to describe the social order that had begun taking shape, tentatively but hopefully, a century ago, when it looked as if the undead might find better things to do than prey on the living…

“Until these Spertins screwed it up with their new upgraded computer, by ramping up the Leininger toxins!” Commander-Healer Paolim interrupted, with un-typical vehemence.

“Now, don’t blame the poor computer,” chided Commander-Artificer Nomlin, just as forcefully. Guts and Nuts glared at each other. Which I found kind of sad, since each of them was at that moment expressing the same trait – admiration of a fine and clever technological solution, wrecked by meddlesome interference. Demmies at their daunting best.

“Okay,” Ohm said, cutting off an argument. “Let’s assume we somehow gain control over the computer—”

“That will not happen,” murmured the sphinx-pilot, who represented the Spertin Empire. “Sure, you could blast your way through its shield by brute force. But then all you’ll have left is a puddle of molten slag.” Nuts looked stricken at the prospect. “At which point the Leininger gas won’t be released anymore, anywhere at all.”

Sully spoke for the zombie caste, only slurring her words slightly.

“Then… in all our cities… people who die will just stay dead?”