[03] Elite: Docking is Difficult (9 page)

‘This isn’t how it looked in the brochure
at all
,’ agreed Misha. ‘What was that stuff about shipping wars? Why would a
pleasure cruise
get involved in a trade dispute over galactic
shipping lanes
?’

‘No, you’re right, it doesn’t make much sense,’ said Phoebe, rifling through a complimentary fruit-basket. ‘Perhaps it’s
not
just a pleasure cruise? Maybe they’ve been transporting a bit of cargo on the side? Wouldn’t be the first time. And traders can get pretty uppity about people messing with their territory. But, anyhow, I don’t think that’s our pressing concern. Our pressing concern is that we’re busted.’

‘We’re not busted, we’re fine,’ said Glen. He pointed to the wall where a big motivational poster of Cliff Ganymede punching a polar bear pulsed gently. The bear had the word ‘doubts’ written on his side. ‘Stop being so negative. Take a leaf out of Cliff’s book.’

‘But you heard Denise,’ said Phoebe. ‘Zeevon isn’t around until after the performance. By which time our cover is blown. I mean, let’s face it – we can’t actually go out there and put on a show.’

‘Sure we can,’ said Glen. He grinned at Misha. ‘Maurice here knows this stuff backwards. Come on, Maurice, you can write us a script. How hard could it be?’

‘Well, I suppose …’ Misha scratched the back of his neck and thought for a moment. ‘The
Galloping Ganymede!
episodes
are
pretty schematic. Just about every week some familiar household object threatens the entire galaxy. Then Cliff and his crime-fighting partner, Skrag, a half human/half Thargoid butler, investigate. Nine times out of ten it turns out the beautiful but diabolical Princess Francine is behind it all along. Usually Skrag has a crisis of confidence, but Cliff uses some of his self-help advice to talk him round. Then there’s a heartwarming bit where they laugh at something or other and Cliff gives out a healthy recipe.’

‘You’ve got two hours. Think you can do it?’

Misha looked at Phoebe, who was looking back at him almost hopefully. The poster on the wall dissolved into a new image, this one showing Cliff riding a horse with ‘positive thinking’ painted on its flank.

‘Yes, I can,’ said Misha, manfully.

‘Okay, you’re on in ten,’ said Denise, popping her head round the door and giving them a thumbs up. ‘The club president is going to give a quick introduction, and then it’s straight into you guys.’

She disappeared out the door again. Phoebe tugged at the hem of her skirt. ‘I feel ridiculous.’

‘It looks good,’ said Misha, trying not to stare.

‘This “Princess Francine”. I take it she’s a space sex-worker, right?’

‘No, she’s a strong, independent woman who doesn’t take any nonsense from the men in her life.’

‘But chooses to wear an outfit with a boob window?’

‘Women aren’t the strong point of the Ganymede universe.’

‘Well, I look
amazing
,’ said Glen, stepping out from his changing room. He was clad head to toe in black PVC leatherette, dotted with silver studs, a couple of bright white stripes running down the arms. Misha was irritated to admit it, but Glen actually made a pretty convincing young Cliff Ganymede. He just had a natural sort of swagger to him.

The audience sat in two groups on either side of the vast hall. They eyed each other suspiciously, and pointedly fingered their ray guns and baseball bats and shivs and lengths of lead piping. The President of the Cliff Ganymede appreciation society, who turned out to be Denise wearing a different badge, stepped onto the stage and cleared her throat.

‘Fellow fans, it has been a difficult time. The shipping war has taken its toll on all of us. But Cliff didn’t die for nothing. The shock of his passing has brought us together. We have put our differences aside, and with the signing of our peace treaty the nightmare of the last sixty years is finally behind us. To celebrate this momentous occasion we’ve got a fun evening of entertainments lined up. Starting with a specially commissioned live performance of the never-filmed season finale,
Galloping Ganymede!: An Appointment with Explosions
. Please put your hands together for the award-winning Alioth travelling theatre ensemble.’

She took her seat in the audience, and gave Glen, Misha and Phoebe, waiting in the wings, an encouraging wink.

The lights dimmed and Glen’s hen waddled out into the middle of the stage, illuminated by a single spot.

‘EXT. THE SNOWY WASTES OF BIDMEAD SIX – EVENING,’ said the hen, who had been switched over to her audiobook setting. ‘GANYMEDE and SKRAG approach MASLOW’S PYRAMID OF NEEDS.’

Twenty minutes into the performance and Misha thought things were going pretty well. The audience wasn’t the most attentive, and there’d been a slow section in the middle of Act Two where he could sense that he’d started to lose them a bit, but the surprise appearance of the mecha-crows from season four had seemed to prove popular. All they had to do now was get through the exciting third-act climax and they were home and dry.

‘Finally we are here, Skrag,’ said Glen/Cliff/Clive, reading the script that Misha had beamed to all of their retina displays. ‘We have overcome challenges to our physiological wellbeing, our employment, our sexual intimacy and our self-esteem, and now, via this ventilation duct, we have arrived at the summit of this infernal pyramid – the chamber of self-actualisation.’

‘CLIVE approaches the ZETA DEVICE,’ said the hen. Glen picked up a slightly melted lunchbox that Misha had found on one of the merchandise stalls.

‘Here it is. The Zeta Device, hidden by the nefarious Count Maslow a thousand years ago. A weapon of near infinite power. One simple press of a button and I can destroy the Thargoid race forever.’

‘But Clive, do we have that right?’ said Misha/Skrag, doing his best to project all the way to the back of the auditorium, because this was an important bit. ‘The Thargoids are a terrible, warmongering race, but even so – to wipe out an entire species?’

‘Foolish, flabby-minded Skrag, what have I told you?’ said Glen. He ad-libbed by cuffing Misha around the head. ‘You’re
entitled
to the things you want. By asking “Do I have the right to commit genocide?” you’re falling into the trap of Negative Thoughts. Haven’t you been doing your exercises? Every morning: you look in that mirror and you tell yourself, “Not only CAN I wipe out the Thargoids, I DESERVE to wipe out the Thargoids, because I’m a great guy and I’m going places.”’

Glen/Clive opened the lunchbox/Zeta Device. ‘But what’s this? The Zeta Device has gone! There is just a note. A note written in the all too familiar bubble writing of my nemesis.’

‘A chill WIND blows through the CHAMBER, shadows play across the walls like the dancing spirits of yesteryear,’ said the hen. Misha, pretty proud of that line, cast a quick glance towards the audience to see if they were impressed.

Phoebe walked on from the wings, still tugging at her skirt. There were a couple of half-hearted wolf whistles from the crowd. Phoebe glowered and gave them the finger. ‘That’s right, Clive,’ she said to Glen, ‘I – diabolical Princess Francine – already have the Zeta device here in my sexy hands.’

There was a tense pause. Phoebe looked questioningly at Misha, mouthed something, then focused on the script scrolling along her retina display. ‘Oh, is it me again? Sorry. Tell me, Clive Ganymede, how did you escape my procrastination bees?’

‘A simple case of neuro-linguistic programming,’ said Glen. ‘I employed the same positive reinforcement that I would use to convince a potential employer of my inherent dynamism, except I used body language rather than words. It’s all in the shoulders. I soon had the bees eating out of my hand.’

‘Your steady eye-contact and the way you’ve enhanced your personal credibility by building a strong social media presence certainly makes it difficult for me to best you,’ said Phoebe. ‘But over the years of our rivalry, I too have picked up some skills. You will recall, perhaps, that earlier in this adventure you stopped off at a bar, where you were offered a range of cocktails.’

‘Another of your traps, Francine?’

‘Indeed,’ said Phoebe. ‘For you see – I knew you would choose the blue Lavian gin, because blue is a colour associated with leadership and personal magnetism. But that gin was laced with a liquid explosive, milked from the teats of my Neptunian cows.’

‘F/X: THERE IS THE SOUND OF EXPLODING INNARDS,’ said the hen.

‘What have you done, wretched slattern?’ cried Glen. He made some groaning noises, and sank to his knees. Misha cradled him. Glen gurgled. ‘I’m done for, faithful friend. Though I have conquered the twin evils of work-related anxiety and time management issues, even Clive Ganymede himself cannot conquer death. I never went to Alioth. I never went to Alioth.’

‘That was really poignant, the way he said that twice, the second time slightly slower,’ said Phoebe. ‘Even though we were enemies, I shall miss you, Clive Ganymede.’

‘You’ve killed him!’ said Misha/Skrag.

He was pleased to hear the audience gasp at this news.

‘I have. And now I will use the Zeta Device to fetroy the galaxy. Fetroy? Is that right?’

‘I was having to type pretty fast,’ whispered Misha with an apologetic shrug, before continuing in his ‘projecting’ voice. ‘Do not do it, Francine. I sense good in you.’

‘No, I am evil.’

‘I don’t think you’re evil. I think you’re just scared of being alone in the universe. You’re searching for something to make you feel
connected
, and
whole
, and less
sad
– the same as all of us! And the truth is, you’re not alone, Francine. For I, lowly Skrag, have a secret. I have been in love with you from afar for ages.’

Misha crossed over to her.

‘I’ve never found the words to say it, but I have long hoped we might get together.’

He took Phoebe’s hand. ‘I would like you to be my Space Queen.’

Out the corner of his eye, Misha noticed that the supine audience weren’t quite so supine anymore. There actually seemed to be a bit of a hubbub. People were shouting. He grinned at Phoebe. ‘They’re really into it. I think we’ve
moved
them. We should kiss.’

A plasma bolt skimmed past Misha’s ear. Then a resin model of a Thargoid sailed through the air and smacked into the stage behind Glen. Misha looked more closely at the audience and realised that, rather than being on the edge of their seats, they were using them to try to stove each other’s heads in.

‘What on earth are you
doing
?’ cried Denise, running on stage and laying down some covering fire as they both dived down behind a big prop rock.

‘What’s wrong? Why are they so upset?’ said Misha. ‘I realise the dialogue could have used a polish, but I don’t think they should be this critical. Drama is hard.’

‘The peace treaty!’ said Denise, having to shout above the noise of the crowd and the sound of rifle blasts. ‘You’ve ruined everything!’

‘What are you talking about?’ wailed Misha, as more plasma bolts knocked chunks of the wall away right above their heads. ‘What’s a stupid play got to do with a trade dispute?’

‘Trade dispute? What trade dispute?’

‘This shipping war you keep going on about.’

Denise stared at him like he was an idiot. ‘Not a shipping war,’ she hissed. ‘A
shipping
war. A schism in the fandom with regards to which characters it was suitable to ship in Cliff Ganymede fan-fiction. It’s the very
first
article of the peace treaty: The undersigned parties are agreed that at no point will they attempt to suggest romantic encounters between the characters of Gary Skrag and Princess Francine, because Skrag would be implausibly punching above his weight.’

An explosion rocked the room. People screamed.

‘Fantastic,’ said Denise. ‘You’ve started a massacre.’

Another volley of bright yellow laser bolts took down the hall’s chandelier and vaporised the remains of the soap statue. Molten chunks of metal rained down on the stage. Misha decided that theatre wasn’t really in his blood.

In the midst of it all both he and Phoebe were surprised to see Glen calmly getting to his feet. He put his hands on his hips and whistled.

‘Hey! Keep your
knickers
on,’ said Glen, frowning at the audience. ‘The show’s not over yet. IT’S NOT OVER.’

The crowd took a second out from firing lasers at each other’s faces, and turned to look at the stage again.

‘That’s right,’ said Glen, adopting a heroic sort of pose. ‘For you see – Clive Ganymede lives!’

Very slowly, the audience holstered their pistols, stopped waggling their bits of lead piping, and sat back down on the seats that weren’t already on fire.

‘Fair enough, let’s see where this is going,’ said one of the attendees. ‘As fans, we’re nothing if not reasonable.’

‘I suppose we owe it both to the artistic process and to our own well-developed sense of perspective to reserve judgement,’ said another, ‘but there had better be a good twist ending.’

‘Just follow my lead,’ whispered Glen to Phoebe and Misha.

‘INT. YOUR MOTHER’S BOUDOIR,’ said the hen, who wasn’t very good at improv. Phoebe quickly punted it behind the curtain. Glen strutted to the front of the stage.

‘I knew Francine would be up to her treacherous ways, all women being inherently untrustworthy. So I made sure I took an antidote earlier in the day. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for my weaselly side-kick, Skrag, who also drank the poisoned gin. It obviously has taken a bit longer for him to digest because of his awful mutant guts. Nonetheless, the Neptunian milk should be kicking in just about now, exploding him from the inside out in a horrific and painful way.’

Misha stared at Glen. Phoebe nudged him in the ribs.

‘Ack!’ said Misha. ‘My intestines!’ Then he made a show of clutching his neck and flopping onto the floor.

Glen gave him a pitying tap with his foot, and grabbed Phoebe by the waist. ‘Princess Francine, I think we both know that your constant attempts to destroy me and the galaxy have just been an extreme and showy form of negging.’

He leaned down and kissed Phoebe. Misha watched miserably as she kissed him back. After about ten seconds the kiss was still going on, so Misha stopped acting dead and stood up. He coughed and waved at the audience.