Waste of Space

by Gina Damico

  Titania: What about the lights?

  [The others mumble a “huh?”]

  Titania: [pointing at the ceiling] There are light bulbs screwed into sockets up there. Maybe we can intentionally blow a fuse and knock the power out. And if we knock the power out, maybe we can manually open up the airlock!

  Nico: How do we do that?

  Titania: I don’t know. Break the bulb and stick a fork in the wires or something?

  Nico: That sounds dangerous.

  Titania: What’s the worst that could happen? A fire?

  Nico: It’s—

  Titania: They gas us? They poison us?

  Nico: That’s not—

  Titania: What more can they do to us? They can keep smacking us down and we can keep crawling back to life, but not eating—and I can’t stress this enough—not eating is something we cannot survive.

  Nico: I know, but sticking a fork into an electric socket sounds a little . . . desperate?

  Titania: We are desperate!

  Snout: Titania, are you okay? You sound . . .

  [Snout trails off. The video recording doesn’t show much, but judging by the looks on the cast members’ faces and the way their bodies tense up, something odd is happening. During this period there is a low-frequency rumble in the background. It lasts for about five seconds, then appears to let up; the kids relax and look around at one another. Then Bacardi gasps.]

  Bacardi: Titania, your nose. It’s bleeding.

  [Titania’s hand flies to her face. When she pulls it away, it’s red. She looks back at Bacardi.]

  Titania: [pointing a bloody finger] So is yours.

  Nico: Mine too.

  Snout: And mine! Louise, what about you?

  Louise: [muffled, beneath her blanket] If my nose were bleeding, it would have nothing to do with NASAW and everything to do with the interstellar microwave radiation beacon that Lord Balway Galway is dispatching.

  [They all look miserably at one another’s bloody faces.]

  Snout: Radiation, huh?

  * * *

  Item: Transcript of audio recording

  Source: Chazz’s cell phone

  Time: 9:02 p.m.

  DV8: Chazz, where are you?

  Chazz: Taxiing to the runway. Had to sneak onto the airstrip so those Fakefinder pricks wouldn’t see us—they were spying on my private jet, can you believe it?

  DV8: Chazz—

  Chazz: Assholes. Anyway, we’re on our way. Should touch down in Albuquerque in a couple hours. I’ll grab Boris, then head to the soundstage.

  DV8: Chazz! Listen to me. We were looking back through all those NASAW files, and we found something . . . bizarre.

  Chazz: Save it. I don’t have space in my brain for anything extraneous right now. I need to focus on storming the shit out of those scientists.

  DV8: I really think you should hold off on that until you see this, Chazz. NASAW isn’t who you think they are. The acronym doesn’t even stand for—

  Chazz: I don’t care who they are or what they stand for. They kidnapped my show and are this close to making a mockery of everything I’ve worked for, and the only way I can stop it is if I can do what I need to do without shit-for-brain producers calling me every five seconds to whine about pointless bullshit garbage!

  DV8: But—

  Chazz: We’re about to take off. I have to go into airplane mode. I’ll call again when I get there. Later hater!

  DV8: But Chazz—

  Chazz: LATER. HATER.

  [end of call]

  * * *

  Item: Transcript of video recording—RAW, UNAIRED FOOTAGE

  Source: Camera #8—Bedroom

  Time: 9:04 p.m.

  [The lights are still on. The noses are still bleeding.]

  [Bacardi exhales.]

  Bacardi: We’re gonna die here.

  Snout: Aw, come on. No, we’re not. You sent out our location!

  Bacardi: Yeah, but who knows if anyone is paying attention? And what if the scientists decide to snuff us before help arrives?

  Snout: You can’t think like that.

  Bacardi: [snorts] You wouldn’t say that if you knew who this ship is named after.

  Nico: Who, Laika? Chazz said a famous astronaut or something, but I’ve never heard of him.

  Bacardi: Not him. Her.

  Nico: How do you know that?

  Bacardi: Because she was Russian. Like me.

  Snout: I thought you were from Brooklyn.

  Bacardi: I am. Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. Where my parents moved after the collapse of the Soviet Union, along with a gazillion other immigrants.

  Snout: And y’all know who Laika is?

  Bacardi: Yes. She was the first ever to be launched into orbit.

  Nico: So how is that a bad thing?

  [Bacardi’s voice tightens.]

  Bacardi: Because Laika was a dog. She was owned by the Soviet space program. In 1957 they stuffed her into Sputnik 2 and launched her into space to determine whether or not human cosmonauts would be able to survive the trip.

  Snout: [quietly] Did she? Survive?

  Bacardi: She made it into orbit. But she died only a few hours later.

  Snout: Oh, dear. Poor Laika.

  Nico: Yeah, but . . . but that was in the early days of space exploration. Accidents like that were bound to happen.

  Bacardi: It wasn’t an accident. It was a one-way ticket.

  Nico: What do you mean?

  Bacardi: They knew she wasn’t coming back. The technology to return to Earth didn’t exist yet. Even if she’d survived the initial phase, her oxygen supply was limited and her food was laced with poison.

  Nico: Jesus.

  [Bacardi looks at her blood-soaked pillow]

  Bacardi: They sent her up there to die. And now they’re doing the same thing to us.

  Item: Transcript of audio recording

  Source: Voice recorder app—phone of Dr. Carla Emmy

  Time: 10:16 p.m.

  [sound of a door opening and shutting]

  Dr. Emmy: Sorry to keep you waiting, kids.

  Matt: No problem. So when is someone coming to get us?

  Dr. Emmy: Well . . . I’ve got a confession to make. I hope you’ll forgive me.

  Kaoru: {She is not speaking in a promising tone.}

  Dr. Emmy: I wasn’t making phone calls. I haven’t let anyone know you arrived. I haven’t notified DV8 or your families.

  Matt: What? Why?

  Dr. Emmy: Because of what you said earlier about the explosions. You see, our job here is to monitor the skies; the goings-on of the immediate vicinity on Earth don’t concern us. But out of curiosity, I checked our records from the past few days, zeroing in on the time frame that you suggested. And what I found was . . . intriguing.

  Matt: How so?

  Dr. Emmy: Forgive me if this explanation is obtuse; I don’t normally interact with people outside the scientific sphere, so it’s sometimes difficult for me to switch in and out of technical-speak. But the plain English version is: something highly irregular is going on in a supposedly empty patch of desert roughly ninety miles from here.

  Matt: Irregular in what way?

  Dr. Emmy: Irregular in that certain unbreakable laws of physics are being broken.

  Matt: That sounds bad.

  Dr. Emmy: Bad? Not necessarily. Intriguing? Absolutely.

  Kaoru: {It sounds like she is not concerned about our safety.}

  Dr. Emmy: It is as though someone is trying to accomplish something impossible by . . . let’s see . . . how to explain this? I shall use a metaphor. It is as though someone is trying to start a theoretically impossible fire by sparking every tool in a scientist’s arsenal—radiation, static charges, electromagnetic induction—to see if anything catches.

  Matt: But what does this have to do with us? Why haven’t you called for help?

  Kaoru: {It sounds like she wants something from us.}

  Dr. Emmy: I’d like to keep this under wraps until we figure out what�
��s going on over there. From what you’ve told me, I believe these aberrations are occurring at the exact location from which you escaped. I’d like to head out there myself to take a look, and I’d like you two to accompany me.

  Matt: But we just escaped from there! Now you’re going to bring us back?

  Dr. Emmy: If you are in fact the only witnesses who laid eyes on this location, then I would like you to be able to confirm it firsthand. What do you say?

  Matt: I don’t know . . .

  Dr. Emmy: I understand your hesitation. But this could be something extraordinary. You could help make one of the biggest scientific discoveries of the century, or of any century! Don’t you want to be a part of that?

  Kaoru: {Tell her we are not willing to cooperate, foolish boy.}

  Matt: We’ll do it!

  * * *

  Back on the Laika, the lights are still on. The kids are exhausted, but unable to sleep. Scared, strung-out, and disoriented, they can’t even tell what time it is or how many hours they’ve been awake. Before long, the bedroom is mostly abandoned, the kids listlessly drifting around the ship like ghosts.

  Item: Transcript of video recording—RAW, UNAIRED FOOTAGE

  Source: Camera #3—Lünar Lounge

  Time: 10:47 p.m.

  [Clayton is shivering uncontrollably. Bacardi is sitting on the couch, watching him.]

  Bacardi: You look terrible.

  Clayton: Thanks. I feel terrible.

  Bacardi: Sorry you’re sick. And sorry we locked you in there. Clayton: No, you’re not.

  [Bacardi shrugs.]

  Clayton: So it was all an act, huh? Even when it came to our . . . liaisons?

  Bacardi: Not entirely. We’re healthy teenagers with healthy teenage needs, are we not? We enjoyed ourselves. Our actions were mutually beneficial. I don’t see what’s wrong with any of that.

  Clayton: What’s wrong is that you lied.

  Bacardi: I didn’t hear you complaining in the throes of passion . . . short as they were.

  Clayton: Whoa. Uncalled for.

  Bacardi: You sound a little pissed, Clayton.

  Clayton: Well, I feel a little used, Bacardi.

  Bacardi: You feel used? I was supposedly drunk. Which makes some of the stuff you did supposedly illegal.

  Clayton: Okay, let’s drop it—

  Bacardi: You’re a pig, Clayton. And you’ve treated a lot of girls like trash. But maybe you’ll think a bit harder about your actions next time, because maybe the next girl won’t be as forgiving as I am.

  Clayton: Oh, you forgive me? Thanks so much.

  Bacardi: Don’t get mad just because someone beat you at your own game.

  Clayton: I’m not mad. I’m impressed.

  Bacardi: [with a glance at his nether regions] I can see that.

  Clayton: Damn right you can. Care to grant a dying boy one last wish?

  Bacardi: You’re not dying. But I’ll tell you what. [She walks up to the window, her chest pressing against the glass.] I’m easy to find online. Hit me up once we’re back home and maybe— maybe—I’ll grant you a second or two of my precious, invaluable time.

  [Clayton is seized with another stomach pain. Grabbing his belly, he screws up his face and lets out a whimper.]

  Bacardi: [with disgust] But, you know. Probably not.

  [She leaves the room. Clayton is left alone, trembling, listening to the ceaseless hum.]

  Source: Camera #8—Bedroom

  [Louise is still under the covers, flashlight still flashing.]

  Source: Camera #6—Bathroom

  [Nico enters. He finds Snout looking at the closed door of the toilet stall.]

  Nico: What are you doing?

  Snout: Trying to screw up the courage to go in there and take a leak on that poor Gila monster. Reckon he won’t like it. [Seeing Nico’s distraught face, he frowns.] What’s wrong?

  Nico: Titania locked herself in the Confessional Closet again. She won’t let me in.

  Snout: Cripes.

  Nico: Something’s wrong with her. She got real weird real fast.

  Snout: What happened, exactly?

  Nico: I don’t know! We were talking in the lounge earlier, and then I left the room for, like, five minutes, and when I came back, she started acting like she’d snorted a bucket of cocaine. Did you see her eyes, darting all over the place?

  Snout: Yeah. Maybe she’s gone stir-crazy.

  Nico: Maybe. But I don’t know what to do.

  Snout: Me neither.

  [He looks at the toilet stall.]

  Snout: Oh, heck, I can’t hold it any longer.

  [He opens the door, walks in, and looks in the toilet. Then whips his head around the small space.]

  Snout: Uh-oh.

  Source: Camera #7—Confessional Closet

  [Titania is peering into the camera. Her eyes are bloodshot.]

  Titania: Everything is quiet now, but not in a good way. In the way that things were quiet then. Afterward. When the beeping stopped.

  It’s a tense quiet. A “what now?” quiet.

  So quiet you can finally hear the hum of the Earth, that fixed vibration underneath it all.

  A steady, repetitious drone.

  Keep-moving, keep-moving, keep-moving.

  * * *

  Two windowless vans are steadily making their way toward Soundstage G-96. One contains Chazz, Boris, and a small film crew; the other contains a small squad of armed men—and a familiar face.

  Item: Transcript of video recording, with phone audio—RAW, UNAIRED FOOTAGE

  Source: DV8 remote film crew

  Time: 11:21 p.m.

  [The camera operator is in the cargo area of the van, aiming the shot at the road. Chazz is driving; Boris is in the passenger’s seat. Chazz keeps taking angry glimpses at the side mirror.]

  Chazz: [shouting into his cell phone, which is on speaker] Can’t you drive any faster? Keep up!

  SWAT Team Member #3: [on phone] Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stop calling me. You just focus on your driving and I’ll do the same.

  Chazz: I’m in the van directly in front of you and we’re the only ones on this road and it’s eleven something at night. It’s not exactly a deathtrap.

  SWAT Team Member #3: [on phone] Still, sir.

  Chazz: I think you’re failing to grasp the urgency of this predicament. This is a hostage situation. Those rotten scientists have hijacked the show and are keeping those kids against my will! I mean—their will! We’re losing precious time!

  SWAT Team Member #3: [on phone] Sir, I’d like to point out that you hired us.

  Chazz: And I’m starting to regret it! I could have chosen any SWAT team in the world, but I chose you! I expect a little more professionalism!

  [pause]

  SWAT Team Member #3: [on phone] Sir, are you expressing displeasure with SWAT Team Member #3’s performance? Or are you expressing displeasure with my performance as SWAT Team Member #3?

  Chazz: Oh, Jesus. Dude, I picked all your head shots out of our database because you were the beefiest actors we had on call. This has nothing to do with talent and everything to do with having an army of threatening-looking guys to storm the ship.

  SWAT Team Member #3: [on phone] Okay, sir. Sorry. Just checking.

  Chazz: Dammit, now we’ll have to edit all this out. Can you just do the job you’re getting paid to do and stay in character? Let’s just get there, goddammit!

  SWAT Team Member #3: [on phone] Yes, sir. I’ll—

  [There is a commotion on the other end, as though the phone is changing hands. A new voice comes on the line.]

  Jamarkus: [on phone] Chazz, are these real guns?

  Chazz: I told you not to play with those until we get there. Put SWAT Team Member #3 back on the phone.

  Jamarkus: [on phone] We’re bringing real guns?

  Chazz: The ammunition isn’t real. They’re marking cartridges typically used for military training. I got a great deal years ago, and I’ve been waiting for the right ti
me to use them. That time has come.

  Jamarkus: [on phone] These can still cause serious damage, Chazz. Especially in the untrained hands of, oh, I don’t know, actors on loan from the Noble Shakespeare Company.

  SWAT Team Member #3: [on phone, in background] I know stage combat!

  Chazz: See? They’re professionals.

  Jamarkus: [on phone] But—

  Chazz: Enough questions, Jamarkus. Just do as you’re told and you’ll be rewarded handsomely. This’ll all be over before you know it.

  Jamarkus: [on phone] But this was never part of the bargain! Doing the show, hawking the products, making ImmerseFX look amazing—that was all I agreed to. You can’t say you’re going to pay my tuition and then refuse to do it until I meet more of your demands. That’s extortion!

  Chazz: Oh, cry me a river. In less than an hour you’re going to get to storm a spaceship like something out of goddamn Cosmic Crusades. Wait until MIT sees that.

  Jamarkus: [on phone] Could I at least try calling the satellite phone to warn them—

  Chazz: Absolutely not. Any advance warning will ruin the reality. Just stick to the plan, all right? GOD.

  [He ends the call.]

  Boris: Hard to find good help these days, huh, Chazz?

  Chazz: I don’t want to hear it, Boris. I said I was sorry. I was emotional and confused and under a hell of a lot of stress.

  Boris: Why do you need me, anyway? I coulda just given you directions to the place.

  Chazz: I’ve got one more job for you.

  Boris: You always do. The usual?

  [Chazz nods, then gives him a wink.]

  Chazz: Better dead than look bad.

  * * *

  By this point in time, the Waste of Space debacle has captured the involvement of five distinct parties whose paths have irrevocably begun to converge. The first is, of course, the cast onboard the Laika. The second is NASAW, the scientists who have severed all communications but are still operational inside Soundstage G-96. The third is Chazz Young and his crew. The fourth is Dr. Emmy, Matt, and Kaoru, now en route to Soundstage G-96. And the fifth consists of the Fakefinders who think they have zeroed in on the cast’s location, thanks to Bacardi’s online post—a ragtag, nebulous group of internet truth seekers with nothing but a thirst for validation and a Friday night to kill.