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  DEAD SPACE

  Lee Goldberg

  DEAD SPACE Copyright © 2010 by Lee Goldberg.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Adventures in Television, PO Box 8212, Calabasas, CA 91372.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  This book was originally published in 1997 under the title "Beyond the Beyond."

  To my daughter Madison, who isn't allowed to read this until she's twenty-one. And to my wife Valerie, who probably won't let her even then.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I couldn't have written this book without William Rabkin, who read every draft and let me steal liberally from our personal and professional lives for this story.

  And I wouldn't have written this book if not for the heroic efforts of Mel Berger and Jeremy Katz, and the enthusiastic support of booksellers like Audrey Moore, Kate Mattes, Barry Martin, Bill Farley, Sheldon McArthur, and the bright stars of the Mysterious Galaxy.

  I'm also indebted to Arthur Sellers and Michael Lansbury, both of whom helped me see the potential of Beyond the Beyond years ago, and to Frank Cardea, George Schenck, Terence Winter, Patrick Hasburgh, Clifton Campbell, Dave McDonnell, Ernie Wallengren, and Michael Gleason for sharing all of their hilarious anecdotes with me. I bet they're sorry now.

  Teaser

  Conrad Stipe sat in the bar of the Spokane Marriott nursing his sixth Old Grand Dad, flashing his nicotine-stained teeth at the big-busted woman in the too-tight silver space suit. His dick was hard, which was a miracle, since the girdle cinched firmly around his flabby stomach cut off all the circulation to his groin hours ago.

  "I've seen the crab nebula up close and the milky way from a million miles," he slurred, staring into her blue contacts. "but I've never seen anything as beautiful as your eyes."

  "Wow," the woman shrieked, her face-lift stretched taut, "When Captain Pierce said that, just before kissing the six-breasted nymph of Zontar, I had my first orgasm, right there in front of the TV set."

  "I got a TV in my room," Stipe said, pinching his leg and feeling nothing. "Maybe you could show me how it happened." If he stood up now, using the bar for support, he figured the circulation to his legs might return. Then again, his hard-on might leave and not come back for weeks.

  She smiled, her capped teeth catching the fluorescent light like the Formica tiles in the men's room. "I can't believe this is actually happening to me."

  "Me, too." Stipe stifled a burp and marveled, for maybe the millionth time, at the sick, horrible unfairness of it all.

  There were hundreds of people in the hotel tonight, and every one of them thought he was the single greatest man on earth. Unfortunately, most of them were on the wrong side of forty and dressed like space aliens, wishing they'd finally outgrow their bad skin and dreaming they could be one of the TV characters he created out of spite and greed.

  Back in 1964, when he was a struggling TV writer, when his stomach was flat, his teeth were white, and his manhood was in constant tumescence, he signed a pilot deal for shit money to create a series for Pinnacle Pictures.

  But before he got around to writing the script, he was hired on the western series Destiny's Journey, where he quickly rose from staff writer to producer by writing the best damn episodic scripts on television. Those bastards who accused him of stealing credit, of simply sticking his names on other people's scripts didn't understand the genius of his subtle rewriting. His little touches made all the difference. If you leave the yeast out of dough, the bread doesn't rise.

  When the show ended five years later, naturally every studio in town was dangling big-money pilot deals in his face.

  That's when those assholes at Pinnacle started nagging him to honor their insulting, shit money contract. He tried to walk, telling them the statute of limitations had expired on the contract. But the lawyers told him a "statute of limitations" applied to crimes, not pilot contracts. The contract was a crime, he told them, but they couldn't see that. Lawyers. What the hell do they know?

  So he took Pinnacle's money, spent it on a pair of shoes, and hacked out the silliest piece of shit he could think of. A story about a military spaceship, run by a blowhard Captain who thinks with his pecker, a science officer with an elephant nose, and a lady doctor whose space-tits were actually a set of high-tech computers. He called it Beyond the Beyond.

  The network bought it. That's when Stipe realized how good Beyond the Beyond really was. He wrote it from his gut, from his anger, by-passing his intellect all together. Instead of writing crap, like he thought he had, he created a work of pure creative passion. It was brilliant.

  The pilot was unlike anything television had seen before. It blew the network away. They ordered 25 episodes. The ratings were lousy, but that was because the show was ahead of its time, it was smarter than the audience. The network picked it up for a second year, asking him to dumb it down, but he had integrity. He wasn't about to pander to the viewers. They would recognize quality programming.

  Well, they didn't.

  One day he woke up with an enormous hang-over to discover he'd somehow married the actress with the computer boobs, the network had canceled the show, and his career was over. He was ostracized because he was too smart, too hip, for the medium.

  Stipe fled to Europe, where he spent the next decade writing soft-core porno films — but with class. Once again, he was ahead of his time, his little-seen Claudette's Boudoir predated Emmanuelle by years.

  He returned to the states just long enough to sign divorce papers, sell what little assets he had left, and see what was on TV. What he saw was Captain Pierce and Mr. Snork on the bridge of the starship Endeavor, shooting an aspirin beam at a cosmic space brain threatening to eat the universe.

  Beyond the Beyond reruns were playing twice-a-day on stations nationwide. He was getting pocket change in royalties, but he found out his ex-wife had a tidy little mail-order business going with selling old scripts, photos, and props to fans.

  Finally, there were people out there who recognized that the show was about something, and that he was a visionary. And he was. Among other things, he quickly envisioned turning that fervent devotion into cash.

  The first Beyond the Beyond convention at the Fresno Hilton drew 5000 fans who inexplicably paid $15 each to dress in costumes, discuss minute details of each episode, and listen to him talk about all those courageous, artistic battles he never fought.

  And that had been his life since. The conventions were still good for five or six grand in cash, a couple ardent but lousy blowjobs from obese women in polyester space suits, and few free nights in an airport Hilton with a full mini-bar.

  It was a slow death, but at least he wasn't enduring the ignominy alone. Kent Steed was stuffed into a booth in the coffee shop, wearing his decaying, rubber elephant nose, and signing copies of his self-published memoirs Call Me Mister Snork. And Nicole Huston, the yeoman who was reduced to a cube and crushed by an alien with donkey ears in episode 27, was selling pictures of herself in the lobby, $1 plain, $5 signed. Guy Goddard, who played Capt. Pierce, was a recluse who never ventured out of his Van Nuys house without his uniform.

  Stipe's long-stifled burp suddenly broke free, and if it hadn't, he might never have noticed the woman's hand on his thigh.

  He had no idea how long her hand had been there, but it made him re-think the girdle issue. What was more important, hiding his flab or regaining circulation in his lower extremities? Of course, if women saw the flab, there might not be any action in the extremities
to feel any way.

  Then again, who was he kidding? They weren't after his body, they wanted piece of his soul, not that he had any to give. He worked in television. At least he did, a long time ago, back when the hag with her hand on his thigh was young and found ecstasy in front of a 19-inch Magnavox.

  "Why did the nymphs of Zontar have six breasts?" she asked.

  He had absolutely no idea. "Because their young are very hungry." With one hand gripping the bar, he slowly rose to his feet. He could tell she wasn't happy with his answer.

  "It was a metaphor for socialism in an idealized, yet decadent, democratic context," he added.

  She trembled. "I'm the luckiest woman on earth."

  * * * * * *

  Her illusions about Stipe ended the moment he peeled open his Velcro girdle and his stomach flopped down over his crotch, hiding whatever might be there.

  His illusions about her began the moment she unzipped her space suit, and her flesh burst out the seams like Pop 'n Fresh dough. But they were too far along and far too desperate to stop now.

  They had dream sex.

  The wanna-be Nymph of Zontar dreamed she was being colonized by Captain Pierce and the Confederation of Aligned Galaxies. Stipe dreamed he was young, successful, and frolicking with the buxom cowgirl from Big Hooters magazine's "Vixens of Double-D Ranch" spread.

  Five minutes later, it was over, leaving one of them unsatisfied and embittered, the other flatulent and fast asleep. She zipped herself back into her space-suit and slipped out of his room, plotting to switch her precious scifi allegiance to SeaQuest.

  Stipe woke up hung-over early the next morning, had a good-morning vomit, then packed what was left in the minibar into his suitcase, and hurried to the lobby before any Beyonders woke up to pester him. He'd be at the airport, heading back to Los Angeles, before they were even out of their Beyond the Beyond jammies. But he was only two steps out of the elevator when someone spoke behind him.

  "Mr. Stipe?"

  Stipe froze. So much for a clean getaway. He turned around expecting another pimply-faced goof in a Confederation uniform and a Snorkie nose. Instead, he saw a barrel-chested man in a chauffeur's tailored suit and dark, impenetrable sunglasses, reaching for his suitcase.

  "I have a limousine waiting for you outside, sir."

  If it was like the one that picked him up at the airport, it could mean a twenty minute drive stuck in a Hyundai with three bald teenagers, each one wanting to show him the body parts they'd pierced with Confederation insignia pins.

  "I'll pass," Stipe yanked the suitcase away from the man's grasp.

  "You're keeping Mr. Kinoy waiting, sir."

  Stipe stared incredulously at the man. "Are you trying to tell me Milo Kinoy, one of the richest, sons-of-a-bitches on the planet, sent his limo to Spokane-fucking-Washington just to give me a lift to the airport?"

  "That's what I'm saying."

  "I'd love to, but Demi Moore is waiting for me in her limo, and she promised to blow me on the way."

  "Mr. Stipe, it costs Mr. Kinoy one thousand dollars every minute his private jet sits on the runway. If he gets annoyed, he's liable to take it out of my Christmas bonus," the man said. "If that happens, I'll take it out of your face."

  Stipe tried to stare into the guy's eyes but only saw his own pathetic reflection in his sunglasses. "You got a bar in your limo?"

  "Yes sir."

  "I'm not talking about a Diet Coke in an arm-rest beverage holder."

  "Will Dom Perignon satisfy you? Stipe handed him his suit case. "Lead the way."

  He didn't believe for a moment that Milo Kinoy, the international publishing magnate behind Big Hooters, Big Butts, and Big everything else, wanted to see him. But if this bruiser was so eager to give him a ride, why the hell was he arguing with him? Money saved on a taxi is money better spent on airplane cocktails.

  He followed the big man out the lobby doors, where a Cadillac stretch limo was parked, gleaming in the early morning sun. The man held open the door and Stipe peered inside.

  Sure enough, there was a bottle of champagne in

  a bucket on a carved, teak countertop. And Milo Kinoy himself sitting in the rich, leather seat, watching the opening titles of Beyond the Beyond on the tiny television set tucked into the sculpted marble entertainment center.

  "Get in and close the door, Conrad, the glare is killing the picture."

  Stunned, Stipe climbed inside, bumping his head on the roof and trying to look natural as he fell into the leather seat across from Kinoy. Stipe welcomed the pain, it cleared his head. Before Stipe could say anything, Guy Goddard's voice filled the limo in Dolby Stereo.

  "The darkest reaches of space, the furthest boundaries of adventure, one starship journeys into the unknown, exploring the mysteries that lie...Beyond the Beyond."

  And as the limo pulled out, and the Beyond the Beyond theme began, Stipe studied the deeply-tanned, billionaire Brit across from him, a man on the downhill side of forty who always dressed for golf, a game the magnate never played. He was the black sheep son of a Sir or a Duke or something, who embarrassed his family by investing his trust fund in the girlie magazine all his Oxford chums were jerking off with.

  But within ten years, he'd used his education to transform Big Hooters into a global porno publishing empire that grew so enormously powerful, he was able to diversify into mainstream music, video and software businesses with equal success.

  "What do you know about the typical fan of your show?" Kinoy asked.

  "If it's a guy, he's awkward, ugly and his sex life is his subscription to one of your magazines," Stipe replied. "If it's a woman, she's fat, has a lot of unicorn jewelry and elf statuettes, and wishes she could find a man as affectionate as her cat."

  Kinoy smiled, flashing obscenely perfect teeth. A poacher could probably sell them as jewelry. "Those are the fans you see, Conrad. The ones you don't live in suburban tract homes, drive mid-size Japanese cars, and rank cable television as more important in their daily lives than God, sex or nutrition."

  Kinoy picked up the remote with one perfectly manicured hand and clicked off the TV, his cuff rising to reveal a solid gold, diamond-studded Schaffhausen DaVinci Perpetual Calendar Chronograph strapped on his tanned, hairless wrist. Stipe casually covered his plastic Swatch with one hand and waited.

  "You flew all the way up here to tell me not all my fans have bad skin?" Stipe laughed nervously. He still had no idea what the hell he was doing here. Part of him couldn't help wondering if it had something to do with that little Double-D fantasy he had last night. But how could Kinoy know about that?

  "This morning, I bought Pinnacle Pictures from the Japanese, who lost their kimonos investing in American studios," Kinoy said. "Pinnacle owns the major independent stations in six of the top ten television markets. I'm going to use those stations to launch my own television network."

  "The Big Network," Stipe said, trying to be funny.

  "As a matter of fact, yes."

  Kinoy didn't laugh, and Stipe didn't care. He was beginning to connect the dots, and he liked the picture it was making. A big, fat dollar sign. Pinnacle also owned the negatives for Beyond the Beyond. But if Kinoy was here, they wanted something more. From him. And that would cost.

  Stipe glanced at the champagne. "Is that bottle just for show, Milo, or were you planning on drinking it?"

  The billionaire lifted the bottle out of the bucket and filled a Baccarat crystal glass for Stipe, who swallowed the bubbly like it was Perrier. Kinoy casually refilled it.

  "Beyond the Beyond has a devoted audience of baby-boomers and their children," Kinoy explained, "all of whom fall comfortably into the 18-49 age demographic advertisers covet. Just what I need to launch my network."

  "I see." He saw dollar signs, and lots of them. "You want to revive Beyond the Beyond, and you need me to do it."

  "I could go off and make it with someone else," Milo said, "But I think the fans would like to see you produce it."

  "I
n other words, Milo, I got the remake rights and you can't do it without me."

  Kinoy stared coldly at Stipe. "Nor can you without me, since I own the characters and the premise. Working together, we can make some money."

  Stipe grabbed the Dom, poured himself some more, then took a big drink, swishing it around his mouth for a moment or two before swallowing it. He belched, long and loud. It felt good.

  "I want a $100,000 an episode, a Double-D girl in my sack every night, and your watch."

  Kinoy unclasped the watch from his wrist and tossed it to Stipe. "Sounds reasonable to me."

  * * * * * *

  Talent agents at The Company didn't start in the mailroom, they began their careers on the docks in San Pedro. They were there every morning at 4 a.m., standing in their suits and ties, reading Daily Variety while waiting for the fishing boats to arrive. Their jobs were to select the very best fish, still alive if possible, and bring them back to The Company's tall, circular building, a marble-and-glass straw sticking out of Beverly Hills and sucking it dry.

  By six a.m., the agent wanna-bes were riding up the service elevators with ice boxes of salmon, tuna, squid, crab, and fish they didn't even recognize. They were met at the 25th floor by super-agent Clive Odett's personal secretary Zita, a crisp, young woman of indeterminable nationality and race whose curves were as sharp as the shiny ginsu knife she wielded.

  She'd randomly slice the fish with the practiced grace of a surgeon and, tasting the raw flesh, would allow those that passed her inspection to be taken back to the walk-in freezers. The rest went to the homeless in Beverly Hills.

  Legend had it that once, when an aspiring agent delivered too many fish she deemed unacceptable, she sliced off one of his earlobes and popped it into her mouth like a grape. Nowadays, the hapless fellow was supposedly living in a parking structure off little Santa Monica Boulevard and munching on the free catch-of-the-day.

  Of course, the more exotic fish were flown in alive from whatever waters they came from in the Company's jet. The fish were killed only seconds before serving by Clive Odett himself, usually in front of his astonished lunch guest who, on this particular day, was screenwriter Nick Alamogordo.