Dead Space Page 7

  That act was a revelation for her. Ever since then, she'd committed her entire being, which was currently clothed in a Urgonian Sloth Princess' golden halter-top and skirt, to protecting the Beyond universe from all who would destroy it. To prove that devotion, she'd pierced her pale, gaunt body with Confederation insignia pins in her eyebrow, nose, tongue, ears, nipples and a special one in what her lover Thrack of Oberon affectionately called her "intergalactic space port."

  Thrack's own "super-warp, plasma pleasure warhead" was tattooed with the starship Endeavor's call letters and, when engorged, also displayed two of its five serial numbers. Only a few lucky space gals knew that, and would never forget the experience.

  It was an experience Thrack was hoping to share with Shari Covina, the one and only Dr. Kelvin, who sat behind a table selling Beyond the Beyond memorabilia. She was everything she'd once been and more. Her original, 1960s breasts were rebuilt and reinforced for the 90s. Her full, red lips were even fuller, the suckers puffed up with collagen. And her blonde hair was even blonder, thanks to massive doses of bleach. Thrack could feel his warhead fueling for launch.

  She smiled at him. "What can I do for you?"

  He could think of a thousand things. "I want to show you my tattoo."

  "I want to show you something, too." She picked up a coffee-stained, shrink-wrapped script from the table and handed it to him. "An authentic, discarded scene from the first episode of the new Beyond the Beyond. Autographed by me."

  It was a steal at fifty bucks. Thrack took out his wallet and opened it for her, so she could see the huge condom inside. Actually, it was a balloon with "XLG" scrawled on it with a ball-point pen, but it usually did the trick with the babes.

  "Now do you want to see my tattoo?" he winked.

  She snatched the money out of his wallet and, before he could say another word, turned to talk to a woman dressed like a killer carrot from episode 23, "Roots of Evil."

  Still, it was a moment he would never forget. Their flesh had actually touched, if even for a second. Besides, now he had a genuine Beyond the Beyond script. He decided to give it to Melvah.

  She deserved it. Her fanfic was what enabled him to get through those difficult years until he turned 18, became a legal adult, and no longer could be imprisoned for the justifiable murder of his parents. He'd cut them in half with a chainsaw after they threw out his Confederation uniform and took his TV away. The judge ordered him held in a juvenile detention facility for three years and, in a stroke of cruelty, deprived of television for the duration. His only contact with the universe was through Melvah's inspirational stories.

  When he was released, her went from convention to convention, searching her out. And when they finally met, she lost herself in the lunar landscape of his acne-cratored face, just as he always knew she would.

  Together, they were a formidable force for the Confederation. All they needed was a little direction.

  Thrack's communicator chirped. He flipped it open and got the direction he so desperately needed. A voice boomed out: "Captain Pierce to Shuttle Craft two, come in."

  "Thrack here, Captain," replied Track sharply in his squeaky, uneven voice. This was a great time in the Beyond universe. The series was coming back, and Melvah and Thrack were poised for greatness alongside their Captain. Their years of devoted service in his command was about to pay-off.

  "Where the hell are you?" Pierce yelled, "I've been trying to reach you all day."

  Thrack hadn't heard Captain Pierce sound this angry in a long time, not since Melvah and Thrack accidentally burned down his mother's house instead of his ex-wife's.

  "We're at Intergalacticon 22 in Barstow," Thrack said. "Everyone's talking about your new commission."

  "Well get your ass back to the ship," Pierce barked, "We're on red alert."

  "R-red alert?" Thrack stammered. Never, ever, had they been on red alert, not even when the mailman lost the Captain's residual check, and they had to break his legs with a crowbar.

  "You heard me," Pierce snapped. "If you aren't on the bridge in four hours, I'll bust you both down a rank. Pierce out."

  Thrack flipped the communicator shut and pushed, shoved and elbowed his way across the ballroom to Melvah's table.

  She only had to look at the fear and desperation on his pitted face to know the unthinkable had happened.

  Red Alert.

  Whatever the crisis was, she already knew it would take a lot more than a rake, a chainsaw, a match or a crowbar to set the universe right this time.

  * * * * * *

  The elevators of the Grand Royal Kona were paneled in smooth Koa wood, each with its own cut-crystal chandelier and Persian rug. It made Charlie Willis feel very uncomfortable. He didn't like riding in an elevator better furnished than his own home.

  He was tempted to scratch his initials in the wood with his special key, the one which, when inserted into the control console, allowed the elevator to go past the seven floors of regular accommodations to the two floors of deluxe suites above. But that would have been petty and childish.

  He was about to do it anyway when the elevator stopped on the eighth floor, the doors opening to reveal a magnificent 18th century oil painting of a tall-masted sailing ship, mounted on a Koa-paneled wall. Charlie stepped out into a short hallway serving two $2500-a-day suites, one on each end. Charlie heard Nick Alamogordo's voice even before he reached his door.

  "...I'll be glad to spell it for you," Alamogordo yelled at someone behind the door. "It's A, as in asshole. L, as in lick me. A as in you asshole—"

  Charlie knocked on the door. Nick opened it, barely acknowledging Charlie before turning his back on him and continuing to talk on his portable phone.

  Charlie walked in, closing the door behind him and taking in the suite, which was essentially furnished in the same old English style as the elevator, with a spectacular, 180 degree view. Straight ahead, the Pacific Ocean stretched into the clear, blue horizon as far as he could see. To his left, the tropical garden, swimming pool, and a white-sand lagoon ringed by swaying palms. To his right, a bright, green golf course rolled out atop a desolate lava desert, black and craggy, which flowed from the hills into the sea.

  "—M as in motherfucker. O as in..." Nick, at a loss, snapped his fingers rapidly at Charlie for help.

  "Osteoporosis," Charlie shot back.

  "...Osteoporosis. G-O as in Go fuck yourself you miserable shithead. R as in—" Nick held the phone away, glaring at it as if it just spit at him. "The sonofabitch hung up, can you believe that?"

  "Maybe he figured out how to spell the rest." Charlie shifted his gaze from the view to Nick in his pleated tan shorts and untucked, Hawaiian shirt. Enormous tufts of hair fluffed out of every opening, making Nick look like a Don Ho chia pet.

  "Fucking studio jerks," Nick grumbled, then turned to Charlie. "Where's my lunch?"

  "I don't know, Mr. Alamogordo, but if you're ordering something, I'd appreciate it if you could get me a sandwich. It was a long flight."

  Nick studied Charlie for a moment. "You're not from room service."

  "I'm a studio jerk," Charlie held out his hand. "Charlie Willis, Pinnacle Studios. I just got in from LA."

  "Well it's about time," Nick ignored Charlie's hand and used the antennae on the portable phone to point at the ceiling. "I want him thrown out of this hotel and escorted off the island."

  "Who?"

  Nick threw the phone at the ceiling in fury. "Him. Javier Grillo, the hack, credit-jumping, ratfucker the studio is paying $100,000 a week to do a production polish on my script."

  Nick advanced on Charlie, jabbing his finger at the narrowing space between them. "No one touches my script but me. Understand? If it needed a polish, and it doesn't, I would have done it myself."

  "I don't know anything about that," Charlie said. "I'm here to protect you."

  "You can start by protecting my script."

  "I'm talking about your life," Charlie said. "I here to stop the Company from killin
g you."

  Nick stopped, still pointing at Charlie. "You are?"

  Charlie nodded.

  Nick lowered his arm. "Clive Odett may be a crazy, vicious prick, but he wouldn't actually kill anyone, would he?"

  "Not if I can help it," Charlie took off his jacket and tossed it on the couch. "I'm staying here until I'm satisfied you're out of danger."

  "Right here?"

  Charlie nodded. Nick played nervously with his wedding ring. "Well, the thing is, I've got a actress friend coming over tonight to go over her lines."

  "That's your business, Mr. Alamogordo." Charlie said. "I'm here to protect your privacy as well as your life."

  "Call me Nick." Nick smiled, relieved, then clapped Charlie on the shoulder and headed for the deck, his thongs clicking on the souls of his bare feet. Something occurred to him when he reached the sliding glass door. He stopped and looked back at Charlie. "Osteoporosis. That's a bad thing, right?"

  "Very bad."

  Nick gave Charlie the thumbs-up. "We're gonna get along just fine."

  Chapter Six

  Melvah sat at the helm of the starship Endeavor, studying her fellow crew mates while waiting for Captain Pierce to show up on the bridge. Because of the seriousness of the situation, Capt. Pierce had assembled the major forces in fandom.

  Bev Huncke rested her considerable astro-girth on a barstool at Ops, balancing uneasily, her butt nearly swallowing her seat. As usual, she was wearing her Snorkie nose and her "I Snork" t-shirt. She once offered to make Melvah a Snorkie-nose vibrator like the one she used each night, but Melvah politely declined. The idea of a vibrating elephant nose in her crotch, even if it was Mr. Snork's, didn't excite her. But Melvah appreciated the gesture.

  Artie Saputo was helping himself to some potato chips from the replicator, which appeared to Melvah to be a bread box taped to the wall with masking tape. He studied the box with the keen eye of an engineer -- he blew his other eye out with one of his pipe-bombs. But he didn't miss it much, he just popped a plastic eyeball from the Security Chief Zorgog Halloween mask into the socket, which gave him a really cool look. Every time he turned his head, the yellow pupil would roll around in his plastic eye like a marble, which it was. The trick, though, was doing something about all that goop that oozed out around his home-made prosthetic eyeball.

  Thrack sat in a folding chair beside Melvah, fiddling with the useless switches on the dead console in front of him and making interstellar "whoosh" noises.

  There was a loud flush from the Captain's quarters and Pierce stepped onto the bridge, hiking up his space zipper and clearing his throat.

  "The entire Confederation is in peril," he said, letting his gaze pass over each and every one of them, "and we are the only ones who can save it."

  When Melvah looked at him, she didn't see the sagging, droopy-eyed actor in a faded costume. She saw Captain Pierce as he was on the show, the rugged hero who powered her imagination and fired her libido, almost as much as Dr. Kelvin's heaving computers, though that was a little secret she kept to herself.

  "An alien force has invaded the highest echelons of Confederation command to carry out an insidious conspiracy." Captain Pierce circled the bridge, his hands balled into fists. "Their poisonous tendrils have even reached Conrad Stipe."

  "They have tendrils?" Thrack squeaked. "Cool."

  Melvah suddenly saw it all very clearly. Now she understood why fanfic writers weren't hired or even consulted for the new series. Conrad Stipe had sold out. He didn't care about the show. He was willing to let them destroy the Beyond the Beyond universe, as long as he got his precious money. All the hard work she, and every other fanfic author, devoted to keeping the universe alive all these years was going to be trashed by the very man who created it.

  Captain Pierce drilled Thrack with a intense glare. "They are plotting to launch the Endeavor with evil doubles pretending to be our crew. Me, Snork, Dr. Kelvin. We've all been replaced with aliens."

  Bev Huncke's plump lip quivered like slug glued to her face and desperate to escape. "They can't do that. There's only one Mr. Snork."

  Pierce put his hand on Bev 's shoulder. "There's only one of each of us. We are unique. We are... human beings." He stared off into some distant place. "That's why we must fight them. With every fiber of our being."

  "They can have all my fiber," Thrack whispered to Melvah. "Makes me shit like a cannon anyway."

  But she didn't hear him. She was still reeling from the implications of the Captain's words.

  Melvah knew Guy Goddard wasn't really Captain Pierce, but like her, he understood the sanctity of the Beyond universe, of the need to preserve and protect it. He embodied the character of Captain Pierce the same way she embodied the universe. The way Conrad Stipe no longer did. He would have to answer for that.

  They had to be stopped.

  "Captain, what are your orders," Melvah asked.

  "I took a vow when I put on this uniform, to protect the Confederation of Aligned Planets and everything it stands for. I can't let the Endeavor launch with a crew of evil doubles," Captain Pierce settled into his command chair. "Kill them. Kill every one of those miserable fuckers."

  * * * * * *

  The Queen Kaahumanu highway cut through a desolate plain of pa'hoehoe lava, its smooth, swirly, surface making Charlie feel like he was driving a Mustang convertible across a giant brownie. The bleak, lifeless expanse was a vivid, lasting testament to the violent forces that were still shaping the island paradise.

  It was also a massive blackboard for environmentally conscious graffiti artists, who carried piles of white coral from the coastline to fashion messages within view of the road. Someone had written "Hollywood" in coral against the side of a decades-old lava bubble. Soon, every place to be any place would have to have a Hollywood sign. Or, at least a Planet Hollywood within a 20 mile radius.

  "I noticed you used my bathroom this morning," Nick picked his nose in the passenger seat. "Did you take a dump?"

  Charlie gave him a look.

  Nick said, "That's the problem with the world today."

  "I don't follow." Charlie sped up to pass a slow-moving white van, a satellite dish on its roof. Against the craggy terrain, it looked like a moon buggy.

  "I bet you didn't think twice about it. You ate a meal in North America and shit in the South Pacific," Nick twisted in his seat to face Charlie. "Go one step further. With modern air travel, it's possible for someone in Africa to eat a yak and, the same day, take a dump in Paris."

  "They don't have yaks in Africa."

  "My point is, you then have digested yak flesh, which is not, in any way, indigenous to France, entering the ecosystem," Nick said, looking grim. "You always hear people complain about nuclear waste, global warming, carbon monoxide, but no one ever talks about travel shit. Why? Because they can't face the enormity of the problem. It's bigger than all of us."

  "Shit, you mean."

  "Exactly," Nick turned his gaze back to the road. "I think there's a movie in it."

  As far as Charlie was concerned, Nick had already written shit movies.

  Suddenly, Charlie regretted not buying Advil while they were at the market in Waikoloa village. Then again, with Hawaii's inflated prices for everything, the Advil would probably have blown his entire expense account. He was still stinging from the 43 cent-per-gallon gasoline tax.

  He turned off the highway onto the road leading to Grand Royal Kona resort. The lush green grass and vibrant pink bougainvillea that line both sides of the road blazed like neon against the black lava on which they inexplicably survived.

  "You didn't have to come with me," Nick said. "I could've bought my own condoms."

  "I'm not about to let you go out alone," Charlie replied, "Or leave you by yourself while I run your errands."

  "Are you planning on being in the bedroom while we fuck?"

  "No," Charlie said. "But I'll be right outside the door."

  As Charlie pulled up under the grand portico of the Grand
Royal Kona Resort, Nick had the grand realization that the Variety ad was a mistake.

  * * * * * *

  The message light was blinking on the telephone when Nick and Charlie came into the suite. Nick called the operator, listened to his messages, then called Susie Glot's room and invited her up to "go over the script."

  Nick hung up and dug the condoms out of his pocket. He examined the packets. "Which do you think she'll like, Charlie, macadamian nut or pineapple?"

  "Since you aren't doing the production polish," Charlie said. "Shouldn't she be giving her notes to Javier Grillo?"

  "Forget it, I'm gonna need them both." Nick shoved the condoms back in his pocket and marched out of the living room.

  Charlie shrugged and went out on the lanai to look at the view. The sun was setting on the water. Lovers strolled on the beach and cuddled in hammocks, watching the embers of the day burn out. And out on the road, Charlie could see the white van with its satellite dish raised into the air on a telescoping base. It was probably a TV station catching a live beauty shot for the weather report.

  Nick stomped out onto the lanai, wearing a silk bathrobe and nothing else. There was so much chest hair fluffing out, it looked like an enormous squirrel dove into Nick's robe and got stuck. Something was on Nick's mind.

  "Grillo isn't a writer, he's a thief. He comes in, adds a stupid joke or idiotic car chase, then tries to fuck you out of your screen credit. Everyone knows that," Nick said. "The reason actresses come to me is because I'm the star-maker. I'm the guy with the vision."

  "I didn't mean to offend you," Charlie said. "I'm sorry."

  "Hey, Nick Alamogordo isn't offended," Nick said. "I'm just telling you this to educate you about how movies are made so you won't offend somebody else."

  Someone knocked at the door. Charlie went to the door and peered through the peephole. Susie Glot stood outside in a short, red sun dress, cut low to reveal her standard-issue synthetic bust. A script was tucked under one arm, and she held a tiny evening bag.

  So far, she'd made a career out of doing slasher movies, typecast as the first girl to take off her shirt and the first one to die. She still was, only this time, it was for top-billing as the stripper who befriends sex-addict undercover cop David Caruso, right before she takes off her shirt and dies.