by Dave Barsby
Over the years, confidence in the fans returned and more bands came to play at Festival. The music and enjoyment of it became more sophisticated, and the world headed into a new era of civilisation. Rock became less volatile, the fans realising that music, not the unleashing of RPGs, was paramount to their enjoyment. The purist Goth fans were rewarded with their ultimate request when the entire 150 square mile section was raised on a wheeled platform and allowed to circle the globe, keeping it in a state of perpetual night-time. Electronica upgraded to the latest AI chips, able to play a non-stop stream of new material for centuries on end without any intervention from or interaction with a living creature.
But, in the 95th year after the RPG incident, Festival suffered its worst blow yet. By this time, the electronica fans had taken advantage of the 24/7 playing of the creative computers to the extent that regulars often took the E-X Ecstasy compound and danced for 14 days non-stop, while hardcore fans had undergone surgery to hardwire the rhythm of their heartbeat to that of the bass.
In the next section over were the folk gigs. Hidden inside their own narrow-minded world of wicker and cardigans, the folk fans knew little of the practices of other musical genres – and particularly knew nothing of the hardwired electronicas. The catalyst for the tragedy that followed, it is reported, was a malfunctioning stove which required recharging. Completely unaware of what he was about to do, a folk fan sneaked across the border into electronica land, unplugged a power source, then plugged it into his stove to recharge it. That power source ran electricity to twelve electronica stages, which immediately shut down. Devoid of bass to pump their hearts, 1,427 electronica fans expired. The rest were so off their tits on E-X they didn’t really care what had happened, but the coke and speed-fuelled industrial techno fans, who held a grudging respect for the electronica crowd, saw blood. What began as a simple mistake quickly escalated into a full-blown war that eventually covered two thousand square miles.
It was a short war by all accounts, but no less devastating for it. It took just four weeks before the industrial techno army, now joined by legions of thrash metallers looking for a good scrap, surrounded the bewildered folk group. Hostilities began immediately. From the very first blow, the techno army had the upper hand, with vicious punches, kicks and headbutts raining down on the bearded, peaceful folk fans. But the techno army grew over-confident; they didn’t feel the need to ship in reinforcements or weaponry. It wasn’t long before the folk clan found their blood-lust and massed for a final showdown. Outnumbered eight to one and with little combat training, the folk clan had two distinct advantages – their resilience in the face of overwhelming defeat, and their camping equipment. Fists and feet were no match for exploding camping stoves, the smothering effect of a tent, the bone-crunching force of a pole to the head or, most deadly of all, the stabbing potential of a hand-carved wooden pipe.
Eleven weeks after the initial unplugging accident, the war was over and 5% of the planet’s grasslands were strewn and bloodied with the bodies of fallen industrial techno and thrash metal groupies.
It was a bout of anarchic genocide from which Festival’s reputation would never fully recover.
The first indication we get that we are nearing Festival is the free-floating, brightly-lit sign on the edge of the star system proudly telling us “Welcome to the music festival planet – celebrating 78 years without a major conflict.”
Rogdo takes this as his cue to call a meeting in the briefing room (quite why he can’t just call it the mess hall and avoid confusion is beyond me). He sits us all down and studies each of us in turn before starting his brief.
“We are close to Festival,” he begins. “I have contacted the spaceship dealer, and he is currently in a section that deals with a hybrid mixture of Goth and metal music.”
“What do you mean ‘currently’?” I ask, wanting to ensure I get every detail exact for my potential book.
“All the businesses on Festival move from area to area every couple of months. People rarely venture from their own section after the techno-folk war, so it is best for business this way. Now, as I was saying, he is currently in the Goth-metal section. As we need to be undercover and inconspicuous to avoid detection, I want you all to dress as appropriately as you can. The only rules you need to know is wear as much black as possible, and the more fetishist the better. I trust everyone has something at least slightly appropriate. We’ll be arriving on the planet in just over an hour, so I presume that is enough time everyone to get changed.”
He leans down beside him and picks two unfurled leather cones from the floor. He rests them on the table. “Now, Princess Larisa…”
The Princess looks up with surprise, having singularly failed to pay attention to anything said thus far.
“Bolland and I have designed these for you,” Rogdo tells her.
“What are they?” she asks, glancing at them with a dubious look.
“Gauntlets, to be worn on the forearms. Now, pay attention. The one you will wear on your right arm is a communicator. You’ll feel a buzz in your wrist when someone tries to contact you. Just turn the first clasp ninety degrees and it will act as a combined microphone and speaker. The left gauntlet has a locator built into it.”
“Why would I need a locator?”
“Well, in case something happens to you. Not that we particularly care, but it would be nice to know if you have been killed. Or if you are snatched by the bad guys, we can use it and you to track them down.”
“Why, thank you. I am touched.”
“Right. When we arrive, we are going to initially scout-”
“Just one minor detail, Mr Flavian,” Larisa interrupts. “I do not believe those…gauntlets will go too well with my dress, so I am afraid I must decline your kindly offer.”
“Ah, right,” Rogdo laughs. “So you failed to pay attention to the bit where I said everyone needs to wear their most convincing Goth clothing?”
“Unfortunately, Mr Flavian, I forgot to pack my travel bag when you kidnapped me.”
“Tima is roughly the same build as you.” He turns his attention to his second-in-command. “Think you’ll be able to sort something out for her?”
Tima grins. “I’ll give it a go,” she responds.
Larisa looks disgusted. “You want me to change out of this dress? Into some of her clothes?”
“Well, you don’t have to. But if you’re wearing that regal gown and everyone else for a hundred miles is trying their best to imitate a vampire, the bad guys may not find it too tricky to spot you.”
“And how do you know my would-be assassins are present on this planet?”
“You still haven’t quite grasped this, yet, have you?” Sanshar says. “People want to kill you. They could be anywhere. Do you want to take the chance they aren’t on this planet?”
“Well,” Larisa says after some thought. “There is my pride to consider. After all, I am the Princess of Almudena, not a commoner prancing about in some grotty blouse.”
“Is your pride bullet-proof?” Rogdo asks. “Laser-proof? Can it deflect bombs?”
“No, but it can deflect sarcasm, Mr Flavian.”
Rogdo turns to Bolland and lowers his voice. “Have they invented weapons that fire sarcasm yet?”
“A few low-powered varieties,” Bolland answers, getting into the spirit of things, “but they only wound egos. The problem is that wit equals power, and they’re the lowest form. You need the hand-held deadpan character assassination guns to inflict serious damage.”
“Okay,” I say, slapping my hands on the table and standing. “While this is all amusing, I think I’ll go and get ready.”
“Yes,” Rogdo says. “You’re right. Sorry.” He points an accusing finger at Larisa. “Princess, go get changed!”
Larisa folds her arms and grumpily looks away.
“You have some suitable clothes in your travel bag?” Rogdo asks me.
“I think I can knock something up,” I tell him.
Forty five minutes later, I am still undecided. I have two choices of clothing, and I compare each in the mirror. I finally pick the clothes that play best to my thin, pale appearance in favour of comfort. The closest I have to suitable footwear are black trainers, but I doubt any potential assassins will be basing their search on shoe style. I combine the trainers with slightly uncomfortable black leather trousers and a faded, frayed, sleeveless band T-shirt: black design on white. My shortish hair I ruffle and spike the tips forward. I finish off the ensemble with a lone earring. I study myself in the mirror and decide I look perfect. Rogdo has other ideas and insists I borrow a studded collar and matching wrist band communicator.
The Captain himself has combined boots with ripped jeans, a tight T-shirt and long leather overcoat – all, naturally, in black.
The rest of the crew have more or less adhered to the ‘black’ rule as well, even if some of them have been more successful in the Goth stakes than others. Sanshar and Dirk are exempt from the inspection Rogdo conducts in the loading bay because they don’t wear clothes. They have already passed down the rear ramp and onto the grassy plains of Festival. Likewise Gronk, who is such a lumbering idiot no one expects him to have any form of fashion sense whatsoever. With this in mind, he is quite happy to sport just a pair of navy shorts in the hope of a good tan.
The females of the group seem to have succeeded with their briefs better than the men. Tima has gone for a brassy look, with ankle boots blending into PVC trousers and a draw-string blouse with flared cuffs. She has clumped her hair together in flopping spikes and dyed the tips red with around an inch of dark brown at the roots showing through the blonde.
Hiaelia is perhaps the most successful. Knee boots are largely hidden under an ankle-length purple velvet skirt, the only non-black colour on show from the assembled crew. She is also wearing a black T-shirt and a fur-lined overcoat, with a single ring through her right nostril and a plain leather collar. Combined with her shaven head, it is quite an image, though she is obviously pissed off she isn’t wearing trousers.
Drift is the first person to let the side down. He has obviously tried hard, but in the end has rooted for biker chic. Chunky biker boots, tight jeans, a rock band T-shirt and a leather jacket stuffed to the brim with studs, chains and rings. He’s even trimmed the unkempt facial hair he developed in the last few weeks into a fairly respectable goatee.
The real problem child of the group is Bolland, who clearly feels he is above this petty, childish obsession with dressing up and has opted for a sterile, white lab coat, complete with seven biros in the top pocket. With any luck, he can pass himself off as an emergency doctor on call to treat two Goths who went too far playing Vampire And Virgin.
As Rogdo congratulates or berates each crew member, they file out of the ship into the breezy mid-morning sunshine. Only Tima and I stay with Rogdo, patiently awaiting the Princess.
When she finally arrives, Rogdo only manages to hold up the gauntlets and say “Here are your…” before his ability to complete sentences abandons him.
Tima has clearly had fun going to town on Larisa, and it seems the poor girl has drawn the short straw in the clothing stakes. Chunky-heeled knee-high buckle boots, fishnet tights, satin A-line miniskirt, tight leather padlocked corset with shoulder straps, and a leather choker. Her raven hair has been streaked with purple and blue and tied back in a loose, scrappy bunch. A few intentionally stray locks frame her face, which has been painted with ruby lips and black kohl eyeliner. To her credit, she doesn’t let her obvious embarrassment show. Instead, she strides purposefully towards Rogdo.
“This had better not take long,” she mutters angrily, and snatches the gauntlets from Rogdo’s hands before making her way down the ramp.
“I…” represents another incomplete sentence from the ship’s Captain, whose mouth is wide and jaw slack.
“Yes?” Tima asks him, with a grin.
“Was there nothing else to wear?” he finally says.
“Of course, but don’t tell her that.”
“Why…?” He puffs out his cheeks, still a little in shock.
“There isn’t a more opposite look to that of a princess,” is Tima’s answer as she proudly strolls down the ramp. “Besides, she can’t be as pompous and regal when she looks like that.”
Rogdo looks at me with wide eyes. “Hah!” he says and grins.
“You find that…a turn on?” I ask with incredulity.
“Don’t ask such a stupid question!” he chides. “Of course I do!”
“Really?!?”
“Hey: beautiful woman!” he points out. “Fishnets! Corset! Legs and breasts and-”
“Okay!” I tell him, halting his train of thought before it picks up too much steam. “It’s just so…crude. I mean, what, you think that is sexy?”
“Dangerous! It says to me: I know you want me, and you can have me, but be warned: I like to play with knives.”
Happy, he strolls down the ramp. “You’re sick,” I say to his back, careful to ensure it isn’t loud enough for him to hear. I follow him down the ramp and onto planet Festival.
Now, you may be wondering what all the fuss is about over how people are dressed on Festival when I haven’t particularly mentioned dress sense before in this book. It is important to establish that certain people do not exactly feel comfortable in their chosen garb, notably Larisa, Hiaelia and an ever grumpy Drift. To be honest, I’m not too keen on my own leather trousers either. But, it is also important to mention all this because, due to a series of unfortunate events, these are the only clothes we will be wearing for the next few months.
Rogdo pairs the crew up and informs them to spend an hour scouting the area for local amenities, possible escape routes and the like. He is to head south with Tima, Dirk and Gronk north, Bolland and Sanshar to the east, while Drift and Hiaelia will take the west. As the non-crew members with no scouting training, the Princess and I are paired and told to wander. According to Rogdo, this is so we can soak in the atmosphere and absorb character traits so that when the time comes to engage in the business side of our visit we can respectably act undercover as Goth-metallers (or punk-lite, as he refers to me).
Larisa seems too miffed she can’t stay aboard the Diablo III to move, so I strike out first, heading in a north-westerly direction. She is quick to catch up with me.
The view isn’t quite what I expect. The sea of green basking in the bright sun is streaked with imported wooden causeways, masses of tents and spaceships of varying sizes clustered in disorderly groups. The roofs and lighting rigs of larger stages can be seen framing the horizon. Gaggles of morose, black-clad Goths of various species wander aimlessly. Covens practise black magic, groups discuss the nature of life with invariably depressing conclusions forming. We pass a round open-air stage, a rather small and disinterested audience encircling it. The band successfully conveys an air of doom, and I immediately feel as though I am in a graveyard about to be buried. The scraping guitar riffs give the sense I am on a slab about to be autopsied, the basslines are draining the last drops of fluid from my inert, decaying body, the synth is clawing angrily at my spirit, while the raspy vocals bypass all that completely and dump me mercilessly in the netherworld. I immediately develop a strong dislike for the music and the entire culture. From what I can see, the audience feels the same way. In fact most of them look ready to stab themselves in the heart. Then it comes to me – they like this. This is the essence of being a Goth. They constantly think about death, they breathe death, they live death. As we finally pass the stage, I absently wonder if the roles will reverse in a perverse irony and they’ll die thinking of life.
In the distance to our right, we can see an ocean of relatively fresh, unpopulated turf marking the place where the hardcore Goth section was uprooted, a small, haunted statue marking the occasion.
I stop, then back up as we pass a rectangular, clumpy spaceship with metal steps leading to a large, open door, above which is the legend SoSueMe glowing in blue neon.
I glance down the row and spy several more ships with similar designs.
“What is it?” Larisa asks, her impeccable voice sounding very strange when delivered by a woman who looks the way she does.
“A bar,” I tell her. “I need a drink.”
“A…a drink? What do you-?”
“Look,” I tell her, a hint of harshness in my voice. “I am a journalist. A fairly average one. I write for local, interplanetary papers on human interest stories, charity campaigns, funfairs and the like. Nice, fluffy stories to make the readership go all gooey and warm inside. I am not what you would call a hard-hitting investigative reporter. I am not exactly accustomed to finding myself in the company of murderers and kidnappers. I am not accustomed to being high up on an assassin’s hitlist. The mere thought of it upsets me. It actually happening is more than enough to convince me I need a drink right now.”
I turn and start to climb the steps to SoSueMe.
“I am sorry you feel that alcohol will solve your problems,” she calls after me, halting my climb. “Because it won’t.”
I turn to look at her. She has taken the clichéd ‘defiant stance’, even down to her hands firmly balled up on her hips.
“I know alcohol will not solve my problems,” I tell her. “Alcohol is never the solution to life’s problems. What alcohol does is it momentarily allows you to forget life’s problems. You never heard of the expression ‘drown your sorrows’? You drown them, kill them, they are gone. When you are sober, they resurrect themselves, but for that brief, drunken night they are gone!”
“Okay, fine! Go and drink yourself stupid. But let me tell you one thing. Mr Flavian said we should stick together, and I can tell you right now I will not be entering some seedy bar!”
“I’m sure you can take care of yourself,” I tell her, feeling my anger get the better of me. “If you look really closely, you can still see the cut on my lip that proves it.”