Roll Over Vivaldi

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The concert was going badly. The audience was getting ugly.

And I mean ugly. They were completely and indelibly redefining the word and concept in a way I hope to never see matched again.

This was about three years ago, when Triaxion was playing on a planet named Sk’rrl. The average adult sk’rrli is about two and a half meters tall, and looks like an unhappy cross between a cooked lobster and an anorexic grizzly bear. Now take several hundred of these hulking creatures and whip them into a sort of lynch mob/soccer riot/piranha smorgasbord mood. Face that with an instrument in your hand and you begin to get the sinking feeling that any encores you might perform are going to be on harp, with heavenly choir for backup.

Being sensible folks, Maire, Rube and I—a string trio who performed under the name Triaxion—were scared spitless.

The only positive aspect of our situation was that dumb embasstard we called Dork was even more terrified than we were. If we were crapping bricks, he was on the verge of filling his pants with entire buildings. He had good reason. The sk’rrli who had him in their pincered paws seemed inclined to tear him limb from limb, eat him alive, or both.

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