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by Lee Goldberg

  Spike nodded, unconvinced, and ordered another Mocha Frappucino Swirl.

  * * * * * *

  Charlie sat on an uncomfortable bench at the police station, putting a few more wrinkles in his wrinkled khakis, trading smiles with the officers he had come to know over the last few months. In general, he found Canadians to be among the friendliest people he had ever met. So much so, he feared for them.

  It wasn't the massive influx of Chinese and Korean immigrants that worried him. Nor was it the threat of French Canadian succession, the rampant Americanization of the culture, or high cholesterol in back bacon.

  With Hollywood invading their city, he figured it was only a matter of time before they all became either aspiring actors or aspiring writers. And those who didn't aspire to be part of the industry will want to feed off it, becoming as crass, greedy and self-serving as the people they hoped to profit from.

  But until that dark day came, Charlie resolved to enjoy the city, its people, its clean air and its refreshingly delineated seasons for as long as he could.

  "Eh, Charlie," Detective Scott MacPherson ambled up, a steaming Starbucks cup in one hand, an appreciative smile on his face. He reminded Charlie of Don Knotts on the old Andy Griffith Show. But it would be a mistake to take the resemblance too seriously. It was common knowledge that MacPherson, while off-duty and shopping for a six-pack and some smokes, single-handedly disarmed two drunken lumberjacks holding up a convenience store...without drawing his weapon or dropping his bag of groceries.

  "When you apprehend a felon," MacPherson said, "it isn't necessary to bring us all Starbucks."

  "I know how bad your coffee is," Charlie explained.

  "That's a cliche," MacPherson sipped his Starbucks. "The idea that police precinct coffee is always awful, it's been done a million times. They did it every week on Barney Miller. Fact is, our coffee here is great. I grind the beans myself."

  "In your bare hands, seeing as how you're so tough."

  "That's what gives it that masculine flavor."

  "You've never seen Barney Miller."

  "So?"

  "You've been taking screenwriting classes, haven't you?" Charlie was disappointed. "Didn't I warn you about that?"

  MacPherson shrugged. "It's not a crime."

  "It should be."

  Charlie stood up, stretched, and checked his watch. "I guess we'd better go if we're going to make the LA flight."

  MacPherson motioned to two officers, who disappeared into the back where the holding cells were. The detective knew what Charlie's job was, but never once asked, or seemed to care, who or what Charlie was protecting. He simply trusted that Charlie was doing the right thing.

  "We're shooting The Young Barnaby Jones Chronicles in Gastown for a couple nights next week," Charlie said. "We could use some crowd control, if you're interested in a little honest moonlighting."

  "Hey, that'd be great," MacPherson said. "Thanks a lot."

  Chick Lansing emerged from the holding cell, escorted by the officers, a big stain on his crotch, his nose taped under a fat wad of gauze. His wrists were handcuffed in front of him.

  "This is an outrage," Chick snortled through the gauze. "I demand to see a lawyer."

  One of the officers tossed Charlie a set of cuff keys. He caught them and shoved them in his pocket. "No time, Chick, you have a plane to catch."

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  "You have a choice, Chick. You can sit in jail in your soiled pants until someone from The Company flies up to bail you out. Or you can come with me."

  The officer handed Charlie a manila envelope containing Chick's personal items. Charlie waited for a moment, looking at Chick. "What's it going to be?"

  Chick sagged, defeated, and nodded. Charlie headed outside. Chick followed him to a Ford Taurus parked at the curb.

  "Take me back to my hotel," Chick said. "The Sutton Place Residence suites."

  "You've checked out. Your bags are packed and in the trunk." Charlie opened the passenger door and pushed Chick in, slamming the door behind him.

  Charlie got in, rolled down the window so the car wouldn't smell like a urinal, and headed down Granville Street, which would take him straight to the airport. During the half-hour drive, Charlie kept his face turned to the window and told Chick how it was going to be. He'd been charged with burglary, lewd conduct, and resisting arrest. The police were releasing him into Charlie's custody on the condition that Chick leave the country immediately and never return.

  "If you come back," Charlie said, "they'll prosecute you for your crimes."

  "This is a travesty of justice," Chick whined as they pulled up outside of the airport. "I'm going to sue you, the studio, the hotel and the Canadian government. You will rue this day."

  Charlie popped the trunk, got out, and handed the luggage over to the skycap, then came around and opened the door for Chick.

  Chick jerked his head towards the skycap. "Stop them — they're taking my luggage!"

  "You tip them a couple bucks and they put it on the plane for you."

  "But I have to change my clothes."

  "Sorry, we don't have time."

  "I pissed my pants," Chick protested. "You can't let me go on the plane in pissed pants."

  Charlie looked at him. "I think you're missing the point."

  "I'm a Company agent, god damn it. Do you know what that means?" Chick sat defiantly in the car, staring straight ahead. His thighs stung, his nose pulsated with pain, and it was time this studio tin-shield realized who he was dealing with. "I have drive-on privileges at every lot. I have my own table at Planet Hollywood. And Clive Odett returns my calls."

  Charlie sighed. "The plane leaves in five minutes. Either you get out of the car now, or you go back to jail. Your decision."

  "Fine," Chick got up and held out his wrists to Charlie. "I'm an executive club member, they'll give me the pilot's pants if I ask for them."

  Charlie unlocked the cuffs and handed Chick his tickets. Chick stared at the tickets in horror.

  He could live with soiled pants, even make it a badge of honor. He had major clients who got onto planes dead drunk, covered in their own vomit, and it only added to their renegade allure. It might even help his image with the Johnny Depp, Drew Barrymore, Keanu Reeves set. But this... this he would never live down.

  "Coach?" Chick's eyes swelled with tears. "Please, no. I can't fly coach."

  Charlie handed him the manila envelope that contained his valuables. Chick took the envelope and began sobbing uncontrollably.

  "I'm finished," Chick said.

  Charlie offered him a Kleenex and led him into the terminal. As soon as Chick's plane was gone, Charlie booked himself on the next flight back to LA.

  Chapter Two

  "Beyond The Beyond" Launches Big Net Slate

  HOLLYWOOD - A revival of the 60s cult favorite Beyond the Beyond will be the cornerstone of The Big Network, Pinnacle Studios ambitious bid to launch a fourth broadcast network.

  "We're aiming our programming squarely at the 18-49 demographic," said Kimberly Woodrell, Big's president of primetime programming. "The future of broadcast television is in niche programming, and we're on the cutting edge."

  Pinnacle is committed to spend $1 million plus per episode, and has hired Conrad Stipe, the series' original creator and executive producer, to helm the new effort, which is currently in pre-production.

  "It's the old show, updated for the 90s," promised Jackson Burley, Pinnacle's prexy of TV. "We'll lure back the old fans and attract a hip, young audience of new ones. This will be the TV event of the century...and beyond."

  Industry wags, while skeptical of the net's long-term chances for survival, were quick to praise the move. The series has a devoted cult following that could rub off on the web, slated to bow on a strong line-up of indies nationwide this fall.

  Six months ago, Woodrell ankled UBC, where she was vp of current programming, with two years still left on her contract. Woodrell, widely credited for de
veloping Valet Girls, was personally recruited for the Big post by Milo Kinoy, chairman and CEO.

  Kinoy's Big Communications bought Pinnacle Studios early last year, and immediately announced plans to build a network on the studio's television station group. Since then, The Big Network has signed affiliates in 28 of the top 30 TV markets.

  "The three networks have become stodgy and stale, out of touch with the new generation," said Woodrell, who apprenticed under UBC's legendary prexy Don DeBono. "We're going to become the network for today. The network that takes risks, that isn't afraid to fail."

  Her slate, still in the development stage, also includes Caine & Able, the hilarious misadventures of two gay bouncers at a strip club frequented by "zany ethnics, Generation X'rs and Estelle Getty;" The Two of Me, described as a "gritty drama" about a teen hermaphrodite struggling through his first year in the police academy; Con Artist, a "magical anthology with a social conscience" about a young convict whose jailhouse tattoos come alive and help people in need; and Sexual Surrogate, a UBC reject starring Yasmine Bleeth as a therapist who "uses her body and soul" to help "families in crisis."

  Although the Big schedule is still in the early stages, insiders report that Sexual Surrogate is slated to go up against MBC's hit Adoption Agency and UBC's new high-concept actioner Siamese Cops, starring John Stamos and Matthew Lawrence.

  * * * * * *

  "Spacedate 980122. Captain's personal log. Two decades ago, the starship Endeavor was nearly destroyed in a sneak attack in deepest, darkest space, cut off from the Confederation. We crashed on a class M planet, most of the crew was lost. But I held on. I never gave up command...or hope."

  Captain Pierce's uniform was a little faded, and very tight, but it still fit, and Guy Goddard wore it, and the mission it stood for, with pride. He sat in the Captain's chair on the circular bridge, staring ahead at the main view screen as he made his report. But instead of deep space stretching out in front of him, he saw the his weed-infested back-yard and the rotting fence that surrounded his downed starship.

  "I hid the wreckage, salvaging what I could and initiating repairs."

  The studio scrapped the set within a week of cancellation and stacked it under a tarp on the backlot. He stole it, piece by piece, and reconstructed it in his living room.

  "But without nitrozine energizers and chief engineer Glerp's guidance, there was little I could do."

  He looked at what was left of his bridge. The lights on the consoles were dark. The sophisticated armrest control panels on his chair were retrofitted with a cassette recorder, a portable phone and a remote control, which activated the VCR and TV at what once was Mr. Snork's science station.

  "I did what I had to survive, against incredible diversity."

  Captain Goddard was more than a role to him, it was the perfect meld of actor and character. So much so, that soon after taking the job, it stopped being one. It was a calling. But no one else saw it that way. To the industry, Beyond the Beyond was a flop. He was consigned to ten years of sporadic guest-shots as stiff politicians and rigid newscasters in bad cop shows, returning each night to his starship to relive his greatest role.

  Pretty soon, the casting directors stopped calling and he stopped caring, scratching out a living doing mall openings and Beyonder conventions, but always in uniform.

  Then he got the word.

  "But in the end, my faith was rewarded. Yesterday, I received a transmission from Confederation high command."

  He glanced once again at the Daily Variety open on the helm, and the glorious headline: "Beyond the Beyond to Launch Big Net Slate"

  "The Endeavor has been discovered. She'll be rebuilt, and I'll once again embark on a daring mission to that distant, unknown corner of space that lies ...beyond the beyond."

  He clicked off the recorder with a dramatic flourish, and noticed the red "battery low" light glowing. Alkaline batteries were no substitute for nitrozine power cells.

  Guy Goddard rose from his command chair, forced open the Mag-Lev tube doors, and walked through the kitchen to the carport outside, where his '71 Buick Riviera was parked. He backed shuttle craft one out of the launch bay, eased into the interstellar traffic of Victory Boulevard, and headed for Pinnacle Pictures.

  He made terrific time, getting to the main gate well within four light years.

  "I'm here to see Conrad Stipe," Guy said to the astonished guard.

  "Guy Goddard," the guard said, turning to his colleague in the booth. "I thought he died."

  "He did," the other guard stole a glance at Guy. "And he was buried in his uniform."

  Guy took his pass and drove onto the lot, giving the guards a chance to see the words "Shuttle Craft One" emblazoned on the Buick's side.

  He emerged from his car and breathed the sweet, studio air. This was definitely his home planet. His communicator trilled. Guy opened his flip-phone with practiced grace and held it close to his mouth.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "This is shuttle craft two," said the squeaky voice on the other end, "we're in orbit."

  "Maintain position, Pierce out." He flipped the phone shut, clipped it onto his space belt and strode fearlessly towards Stipe's small, Spanish-style bungalow.

  He opened the door and found himself facing a secretary with enormous breasts sitting at her desk, which was cluttered with recent issues of Variety, Hollywood Reporter, National Inquirer, and other required reading of the trade.

  "Nice computers," Guy admired her breasts. "I haven't seen mainframes like that in light years."

  "Yeah, they should be in the Smithsonian," she glanced at the IBM PC on her desk and shrugged, mistaking his galactic compliment for sarcasm. "I have an electric razor with more RAM."

  She looked back at Guy. "Mr. Stipe told me to send you down to see him on stage 14."

  Guy gave her a curt nod and left, walking around the bungalow to the soundstage directly behind, opening the heavy, sound-proofed door and letting it close behind him with a dull thud.

  The cavernous soundstage was dominated by a giant structure made up of plywood flats braced with long two-by-fours. To anyone else, it was the bland exterior of another set. But to Guy Goddard, it was the riatanium hull of the magnificent starship Endeavor. He walked along the edge of a set, where a row of port-holes looked out on a giant backdrop of stars and planets.

  Guy studied the stars and recognized it immediately as the Gamma Sector, where he once battled an entire fleet of Umgluck Warstars. He peered through the porthole, and saw the med-bay. Gleaming white brain re-energizers hung above every space bed. At the main med console, he spotted the data-cords that plugged into Dr. Kelvin's computer breasts and remembered the time he strangled a globulan mebocite with one of them.

  Those were the days.

  He walked around the edge of one flat, and suddenly found himself at the end of the long, silver corridor that led to the bridge. Taking a deep, proud breath, he marched down corridor, admiring his ship. When he looked at the walls, he didn't see spray-painted egg-cartons, colanders, and lawn genies. He saw interstellar baffles and high-tech energy conduits. When he studied the data screens, he didn't see transparencies on light-boards. He saw plasmatron read-outs from the bio-net computers. His ship was ready for action, and he was ready to take her to meet it.

  Guy reached the end of the hall, forcing open the sliding space-doors to reveal the Endeavor bridge. The command consoles were aglow with blinking lights, probably running a full diagnostic of the ship's sensor array. At Mr. Snork's science station, dazzling, geometric shapes gyrated on the video screens. Although they were still in space-port, the irascible Mr. Snork was already running some experiments. He'd have to toss a few extra space-peanuts his way.

  Guy settled into his command chair and gently stroked his arm-rest control panels. All the major switches were there, even a few new ones. There would be plenty of time to learn what they were for. The important thing was to get back out there, to the very edge of the unknown, to the worlds that on
ly exist...Beyond the Beyond

  "Don't get too comfortable, Goddard," Stipe's voice rudely broke into his reverie. "This won't take long."

  Guy rose to see Stipe entering the bridge with a young man in what appeared to be a Confederation uniform. Stipe's eyes swam in the three screwdrivers he washed down his Egg McMuffins with that morning. Guy started the day with a glass of delicious Tang and five of the Space Food Sticks from the cases hidden in his garage. It's how Guy stayed so sharp.

  Stipe turned to the man next to him. "I want you to meet Chad Shaw."

  Guy studied the kid. He appeared to be a humanoid in his late 20s, good build, surgically altered nose, and hair at least an inch longer than regulation length. His uniform was similar to his own, but a different cut. What disturbed Guy was the blue stripe across the chest, a Captain's stripe.

  "Aren't you a little young to be in a command position?" Guy asked Chad.

  "Who is he?" Chad asked Stipe.

  "Guy Goddard. He played Capt. Pierce in the original series," Stipe replied, then faced Guy. "Chad was the star of Teen PI for five years. He can command any series he wants. We were lucky to get him."

  "I've never watched Beyond The Beyond," Chad told Guy. "I don't want it to color my performance. Nothing personal."

  Chad clapped him on the shoulder and turned to Stipe. "Maybe we can screen our first episode at the motion picture home for the entire original cast."

  "That's a great idea, Chad." Stipe replied.

  "Nice meeting you, Guy." Chad smiled and walked off the set. As soon as he was gone, Guy confronted Stipe.

  "What's he doing on my ship?" Guy demanded.

  "It's not your ship," he replied wearily. "It's a set. It's not real."

  "He shouldn't be wearing a blue stripe," Guy narrowed his eyes at the airlock Chad disappeared through. "I'll bet my asteroids he hasn't even graduated from Star Academy. Security Chief Zorgog will be taking a close look at him with every one of his six beady eyes."