Jack didn’t answer right away, being busily preoccupied with something behind his back. (Mollie feared another origami creation was forthcoming.)

            Hamish glared at him with more than a little Pictish hostility. “You worthless, feckless, aimless, graceless, useless sack of –“

            “Shhhh!” hissed Tasha. “I have SUCH a headache!”

            Craig bitterly eyed his fiddle as it lay atop the rest of the Neon Lites’ possessions in a basket far from the creaking hold. “If I had my bow, I’d be tappin’ oot a headache or three just noo…”

            Apparently oblivious to the big swarm of bad vibes winging his way, Jack suddenly beamed and addressed the company. “A-ha! A classic example of the ancient Grecian foursquare sliploop with a tricky Phoenician twist! What craftsmanship! I love these guys!”

            Denara was ready to spit nails and/or burst into flame, whichever was more likely to damage the jerk in the black T-shirt. “What in the five hells of Hellebore are you ON about?”

            “Knots.”

            “Macadamias?” asked Tasha hopefully.

            “Not nuts,” Mollie spat.

            “I think the lad’s nuts,” put in Craig.

            “Hey, did you hear the joke about the two peanuts walking down the road?” Jack began, his smile becoming smugger by the minute.

            “Aye – one was ASSAULTED!!” bawled Hamish, as he lunged towards the offending bodhran player, heedless of the sturdy ropes around his wrists and ankles. His ill-conceived attack came to an abrupt and painful end as the decidedly non-aerodynamic piper crash-landed on Sparki.

            “Like, OOOF!”

            Sparki blacked out. Tasha averted her fashion-sensitive eyes from the hideous spectacle of mixed tartan and tie-dye. Bruce would have wept.

            “That looks like it hurt,” observed Jack, stretching his arms as he climbed to his unencumbered feet. “Should I go get some ibuprofen?”

            “Oh yes, please!” Tasha sighed in relief. “And some Sassoon Revitalizing Follicle Cream, triple strength. This sea air is murder!”

            The rest of the band gaped at Jack, who climbed to the top of a large crate and sat, cross-legged, smirking down at them. “What’s the matter, folks? Tongue-tied?”

            Mollie counted to ten, bit her lip, counted to twenty and managed a lukewarm smile. “Jack, dear old pal, how about giving us a hand…?”

            The temptation to applaud was great, but to his dubious credit the young man refrained. “You don’t mean to say I’M the ONLY winner of the Anvil Sanctuary’s Quintennial Macramé-Bondage Championship in this hold?? Get outta here!”

            “That,” snarled Hamish, roiling as carefully as possible off Sparki’s semi-flattened form, “is precisely what we’d like to do, ye ken?”

            “Gee, let me think. I can untie you, get beat to a pulp and stuffed in a sardine barrel –“ (Denara blinched guiltily and hushed her thoughts.) “—OR, I can take the backpack, beam to the ship, and scoot my cute butt back to fame, fortune and all the amaretto cappuccinos I can slam. Hmmm, decisions, decisions…”

            “But Jack,” Mollie cried, sensing disaster in the air, “we’re your friends!”

            “Jack is Jack’s friend,” snapped Jack, giving the author an evil glare for that awkward and uncharacteristic turn of phrase. “Look, in the eight hours since I met you guys, I’ve been called `smart arse’, `thief’, `poxy bastard’, `retro’ and `bodhran brain’. I’m beginning to think ya’ll don’t like me.”

            “Ye WERE and still ARE tryin’ t’ ROB us!” Craig shouted in exasperation. “Our relationship is nae exactly based on trust!”

            “Don’t shout at me!” whined Jack. “I’m unethical, but I’m sensitive!!”

            “It’s yer arse’ll be sensitive for a bloody blue moon!” roared Hamish, thrashing about on the rough wood planks. “Untie us NOO, ye black-bellied STOAT!!!”

            “Oh, yes, good, that sounds MUCH more complimentary…” Mollie moaned.

            While all the gab was going on, Denara was nudging the stunned Sparki back into her normal state of semi-consciousness. With a groan and a jingle of gypsy bells, Sparki sat up, thoroughly dazed and contused. (Yes, conTused.)

            “What about her?” Denara chimed in. “You like Sparki…right, Jack?”

            The burgling bodhran player blinked rapidly. “Well, uh, hey now, I’m not, er, umm, which isn’t to imply that we, I mean, oh spit…”

            Gazing slowly around the room, Sparki employed her unfailing ability to grasp the obvious. “Whoa, Jackdude! You are most excellently unbound! Way cool.”

            Jack heaved a great sigh and considered the hapless band before him. He felt an utterly             unfamiliar twinge of conscience. “Damn, I guess the shots didn’t work,” he muttered to himself… “Well, so much for the fortune. Fortune isn’t everything, right? Just look at you guys.” Hamish growled dangerously as Jack hopped off the crate and knelt behind him to undo the ropes. “Whoa, steady big fella!”

            The Scot sat up, rubbed his wrists and waited patiently until all the others were free before clamping a massive paw around the ex-thief’s neck. Eyes ablaze, he leaned close into Jack’s face. “Thanks,” Hamish rumbled.

            “Don’t mention it,” squeaked Jack, turning a trendy shade of plum (much to Tasha’s delight).

Smiling with all his teeth, Hamish released the young man with a gentle flip of his piping arm that sent Jack hurtling across the hold, directly into the side of a huge stack of crates. A great thud and crunch was heard by all.

            “A fine throw, cousin!” Craig offered, when the cheering had died down.

            “Byron! Another café au lait, my good man,” Jack babbled weakly from the wreckage.

            Mollie dashed across the hold to the scene of the crash, arriving just in time to see a jumble of electronic bits fall of the side of the gilt-edged sarcophagi onto Jack’s head.

            “You broke the cryogenic controls!” she gasped accusingly.

            “Well excuuuuuuse the brain pan outta me,” Jack grunted back, dolefully rubbing his bruised skull. “Talk to MacShotput over there!”

            A loud hiss of escaping steam and the shriek of ancient hinges dampened the budding argument. The three sarcophagus lids popped open, filling the damp hold with a cloud of vanilla-scented cryogenic-ice fog. Mollie choked and ran for the nearest porthole.

            Before Tasha’s fearful but luckily waterproof-mascared eyes, the noble form of Brucius RuPaulius, Hairdressing Laureate of Athens, rose from the foremost chamber. Bruce looked around the dismal hold and spied the stunned faces of his long-lost friends.

            “Biscuits!!”

            With his typical flair, Bruce flipped his ivory toga sash over a fashionable shoulder and stepped down from the sarcophagus, using the conveniently placed Jack as a stairway. Tasha ran to embrace her beloved hairdresser with many well-spritzed sobs.

“Oh sweetie,” enthused Bruce, “it’s so GOOD to see you! You look FABulous! Except…oh my GAWD, look at all those split ends!!”
            Tasha scowled darkly. “It’s all THEIR fault!!!” she cried, waving her ruined manicure at the rest of the band. “You KNOW how THEY are!”

Bruce pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “What kind of ANIMALS are you???” he snapped, hugging Tasha protectively. “Depriving the poor girl of a decent hot oil treatment?!!!”

Hamish looked at Craig, who looked at Denara, who looked at Sparki, who looked at Jack and shrugged. “Mmm, sounds kinky,” Jack muttered. Craig thoughtfully struck him with his recovered fiddle bow.

“Did I hear someone taking the term `animals’ in vain?” barked a clear Oxford-accented voice. Mew leapt from his chamber and rushed to lick everyone’s hand in happy doggy greeting. “Oh say, I don’t remember you chaps,” he paused, eyeing Jack and Denara.

Despite her usual veneer of sarcasm, the girl’s face lit up as she patted Mew on the head. “I’m Denara de la Reese. The Oracle of Banar. Pleased to meet you.”

Mew was pleased with her manners, even if he didn’t understand the Oracle bit any more  than the rest of the group. “I am Bartholomew Colin Christian Dior von Canine, but you may call me –“

“Bart, my main dog! What it is, bow-wow, bro?” Jack grinned, pumping a paw.

“—Mew,” the dog finished, with a fixed glare. “And who is this person who speaks to me as if I desired his input?”

Craig knelt beside Mew. “Bodhran player,” he whispered conspiratorially into a cocked canine ear. Mew grimaced in distaste. Jack hastily scrambled to his feet and backed away, certain the dog was about to puke on his tennies.

While we’re on that subject anyway, Mollie returned from her sojourn to the porthole just in time to see a greasy, greenish figure crawl out of the third sarcophagus. “Ooooh, I feel digestively challenged to the utmost…This is all your fault, Brucius! You and your stupid naval obsession…”

The entire reunited band, plus Denara, plus Jack, all heaved a heavy sigh as Snerdly once again pushed his battered glasses back with an insolent index finger. Some things in the universe are just…well…universal. Like carbon. And nerds.

“Mondo bitchen reunion, dudes and dudettes! Let us most totally adjourn to our rockin’ ship and like, majorly party down for a few megalightyears! Right on!” shouted Sparki in triumph. Much rejoicing was heard from all quarters (yay) as she whipped out the mini-beam machine and punched the button.

One blinding flash of light and several gabillion quantum-bunny-hops later, the Neon Lites (and sundry hangers-on) materialized on the transporter platform of their (still unnamed) ship in one slightly space-sick heap. There were a few random screams as a certain hairdresser pinched a certain Scotsman, quite by accident, and a certain obnoxious band manager was punched out by a certain female drummer, quite on purpose.

“There’s like, no bogus place like home,” Sparki grinned.