by Eoin Colfer
If the planning office had a tough job that needed doing, then Prostetnic Jeltz had the kroompst to get it done. In fact, Jeltz’s photograph hung on the Wall of Kroompst alongside all the bureaucratic greats in Vogon history. Vrunt the Naysayer, Sheergawz the Rubberstamper and, Jeltz’s nemesis, Hoopz the Runaround. And now Jeltz himself. All the photographs were taken from behind as was the tradition in the Hall of Kroompst, wherein stood the Wall of Kroompst.
Jeltz sat in his command chair on the bridge of his ship, the Business End, wondering what epithet would be bestowed on him back in Megabrantis.
Jeltz the Destroyer. That had a ring to it, but it seemed a little random. He rarely destroyed a world without paperwork.
Jeltz the Unswerving. Nice one, but it did make him sound like a race-pod pilot.
Whenever Jeltz played the epithet game, he always came back to his father’s pet name for him: Jeltz the Utter Bastard. That said it all, really. Jeltz remembered one of his own early poems.
‘Utter bastard,’ he said in a voice of distant rumbling thunder.
‘Play thee,
No more,
By the crabby hole.
Lay down thine mallet
And flap flippy floppy arms,
At a world of sun and tight skin.
Learn hate well,
My little Utter Bastard.’
Jeltz felt something collect at the corner of his eye. A speck of dust, he supposed, flicking it away.
Constant Mown, a subordinate, appeared at his shoulder, sporting one of those chin-cup drool-catchers so fashionable among the youngsters.
‘Prostetnic Jeltz?’
‘Obviously, Constant. I wear a name tag to help people find me. It saves time when you are dealing with idiots.’
The subordinate bobbed. ‘Yes, Prostetnic. Of course, sir.’
‘Did you want something, Constant Mown?’
‘You said to inform you when we were ready for hyperspace.’
A contented sigh dribbled from between Jeltz’s lips. Hyperspace. It was said that Vogons only experienced the emotion known as happiness when they were lost in hyperspace. The skin was pulled back, bones pushed together. A person felt almost evolved in hyperspace. There was a lack of control that had a dark deliciousness to it, and there was a small chance that one could end up anywhere, without the proper visa.
‘Very well, Constant. Plot our course through Earth space. Might as well be the first to use the route, now that there is no Earth in the way and no Earthlings left to complain.’
Constant Mown bobbed twice, then froze, head cocked like a confused Squornshellous Zeta mattress.
‘Problem, Mown?’
Mown was reluctant to deliver news of any kind. In his experience, news delivered to superiors invariably ended up being bad news, even if it had seemed good when one opened one’s mouth to deliver it.
‘No, sir. No problem. As you said, there is no Earth…’
Jeltz burbled his pendulous bottom lip. ‘And no Earthlings. The order clearly states that no Earthlings are to be left alive. The Hyperspace Planning Council does not want some displaced humanoids demanding their day in court.’
‘Indeed, Prostetnic. Well said, nice sentence structure.’
Jeltz rubbed his side where the kidney-drain chafed his skin. ‘Are there Earthlings left alive, Constant?’
‘There are rumours of a new colony in the Soulianis nebula,’ admitted Mown, the words leaking out of his face.
Jeltz gurgled for a long moment. ‘Soulianis? Isn’t the mythical Magrathea supposed to be in Soulianis?’
‘Correct, Prostetnic. Well remembered.’
A vein fluttered in one of Jeltz’s eyelids, a manifestation of his annoyance. Another common manifestation was flushing whoever had delivered the annoying news out of an airlock.
‘You said rumours, Constant Mown. What kind of… rumours?’
‘They… the Earthlings… put an advertisement in the WooHoo magazine personals.’
‘An advertisement!’ spluttered Jeltz, offended for some reason. ‘Show me.’
‘Of course, Prostetnic.’
Mown scuttled across to a computer terminal, flexed his fingers, then punched the operator in the tender spot between the shoulder blades until he brought up the appropriate page on-screen.
‘There it is, Prostetnic. The link is dead now – they are not taking any more résumés.’
Jeltz read the advertisement carefully, gargling all the while. ‘Nice of them to provide coordinates,’ he noted. ‘What would you do, Constant? In my place. Would you allow these Earthlings to live? After all, their planet was the main target. Would you follow your orders to the letter and make the long journey to Soulianis to obliterate this colony?’
Mown did not hesitate. ‘We are Vogon, Prostetnic. I cannot even file the paperwork until the Earthlings are dead.’
‘That was the correct response, Mown,’ said Jeltz. ‘Eleven jumps to Soulianis, I think.’
The constant bobbed an affirmative bob. ‘I will program the drive immediately, Prostetnic. We can charge the Unnecessarily Painful Slow Death torpedoes on the trip. Hyperspace static will give them a little extra sting.’
Jeltz nodded approvingly. ‘You, Mown, are an utter bastard.’
Mown tried to salute, flinging a tiny arm across an expansive gullet in the direction of his head.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ he said.
Wowbagger’s Longship, the Tanngrísnir
Arthur Dent woke to the sound of surf on the beach.
Whoosh on the way in, rattle on the way out.
The familiar noises came from below and to the left of his bed. Exactly as they should. The pootle-tink birds were beginning their morning show-off antics, clapping broad wings and singing their slightly risqué songs, hoping to attract the attention of a rainbow-plumed female.
I am home in my beach house. All that other stuff, with the Earth exploding and the green aliens, was all a nightmare. It was nice to see everybody, but why does there always have to be genocide?
Arthur felt a sense of relief and he breathed it in, inflating his lungs, relishing his daily decisions.
Rich Tea or Digestives? Maybe Earl Grey today. Why not.
Arthur lay still, letting his bones warm up. No sudden moves at his age, whatever his age was.
Come to think of it, maybe the dream hadn’t been all bad. He’d fairly raced up the ramp to Zaphod’s ship. Not a single ball joint had popped out of its socket. And the nose hair, he hadn’t missed that.
Maybe I should get a trimmer. Nothing fancy.
No! It starts with nose hair trimmers and the next thing you know there’s a Zylatburger bar on your doorstep. No commerce. No contact.
Arthur opened his eyes and was momentarily relieved to see the interior of his wooden hut, but then he noticed something on the corner of the ceiling. A digital countdown, with words before it. He closed his bad eye, and read the words, which amazingly enough were in English.
Seconds to reality read the words. Then a countdown. Five seconds to reality apparently.
Five… four…
More reality, thought Arthur. Bugger.
At zero the beach was switched off and Fenchurch appeared on Arthur’s ceiling, smiling that off-kilter smile of hers, those arched eyebrows like slashes of oil pastels, blue eyes twinkling.
I can see you, darling. This is real.
But, of course, it was not.
‘Hello,’ said Fenchurch. ‘Welcome to consciousness. If you enjoyed your tailor-made easy-wake experience, please leave the program a feedback star. Would you like to leave a star at this time?’
‘What?’ said Arthur.
‘Would you like to leave a feedback star at this time?’ said the computer, upping the volume a notch.
‘Um… Yes. Have a star. Have two, why not.’
Fenchurch smiled and it was painful to watch. So beautiful.
‘Thank you, Arthur Dent. It has been my pleasure to monitor your dreams.’
/>
And, just like that, she was gone.
Again.
No less painful than the first time.
Reality was a small room on Wowbagger’s longship with grey, interactive walls and a cubicle in the corner. Arthur decided that a hot shower would be extremely nice, but not too long, or he might relax and start thinking about Fenchurch.
Not thinking about Fenchurch was going to be difficult, Arthur realized, as her face appeared on the shower door.
‘I am your chamber’s Body Optimizer,’ said the computer’s interpretation of his dreams. ‘Tell me what you want. Please start your sentence with: I want…’
Simple enough. ‘I want a nice shower,’ said Arthur. ‘And a shave. I want to feel good.’
‘Shower, shave and feel good. Are these the things you want?’
‘Affirmative,’ said Arthur, getting into the spirit of it.
‘Please enter the cubicle, Arthur Dent.’
Arthur unbuttoned his shirt, then had a thought. ‘Fenchurch… Ahmm, computer, could I have a little privacy?’
‘I am the computer. There is no privacy.’
It was ridiculous, Arthur knew. This was not Fenchurch, this was a still shot plucked from his memory.
‘Nevertheless, could you shut your eyes?’
‘I don’t have eyes.’
‘Turn off your cameras then and take the face away.’
‘While you are in the Optimizer only. After that I will resume monitoring.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ said Arthur, dropping his clothes into a hamper, which made a sneezing noise.
‘Holy shit!’ said the computer.
‘What kind of language is that for a computer?’
‘I got this phrase from your memory. Apparently you used it all the time at the BBC.’
‘I had good reason,’ muttered Arthur. ‘Bloody producers.’
‘These clothes have a stink-o-factor of twelve and are carrying several viruses, not to mention the twelve million dust mites, which I just mentioned. Your speech patterns are very strange. At any rate, these garments really have to go.’
‘Wait!’
‘No waiting, Arthur Dent. Those mites could get into my circuits and then where would we be? Floating dead in space, that’s where. Kiss your shorts goodbye.’
The hamper growled and shook slightly as Arthur’s clothes were incinerated.
‘Now, into the cubicle with you. Five minutes and then my cameras are back on.’
Fenchurch’s face disappeared and Arthur stepped tentatively into the stall.
‘No peeking.’
‘Four fifty-nine, Arthur Dent. Four fifty-eight…’
‘Okay. I’m in, I’m in.’ Arthur glanced around. ‘Won’t I need a towel?’
‘Whatever for?’ asked the computer.
Arthur barely had time to wonder what kind of shower he was in before dozens of glowing lasers shot from crystal nodes set into the walls, bathing him in crimson light.
Arthur’s first thought was that he had been lured into a death cubicle, but when he opened his mouth to scream, a laser shot inside and scraped his tongue. He lifted an arm to cover his mouth and another laser trimmed and buffed his fingernails. The laser scrubbing was thorough and not altogether unpleasant once Arthur relaxed and accepted what was happening. Dirt and skin cells were sloughed off and collected by a recycling vacuum in the tray. He selected a hairstyle from a v-catalogue and his scalp tickled as the lasers coiffed his locks.
‘Smile, please, Arthur Dent,’ ordered the computer.
Arthur complied and his teeth were whitened by a jittering beam.
I feel good, Arthur realized. Better than I have in years.
The cloud of skin, hair and grime settled and Arthur stepped from the cubicle to find a suit lying on the bed. As soon as he saw the suit, Arthur cringed. It took him a minute to figure out why.
‘Bugger me,’ he breathed. ‘Eaton House.’
It was his school uniform from preparatory school, complete with striped tie and green cap.
Fenchurch appeared on the wall. ‘Do you feel good, Arthur Dent?’
Arthur covered himself with a handy pillow. ‘Eh… Yes. Yes, I do. Can’t I have something else to wear?’
‘You dreamed of this, Arthur Dent. So I made it in your size. There are no more clothing credits for this cycle. Is there something wrong with these garments?’
Arthur ran his finger along the green jacket’s crimson lapel.
‘No. Nothing wrong, I suppose. It’s just that this is a school uniform.’
‘It is clean.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Free of viruses and dust mites.’
‘Good point, but hardly age appropriate.’
‘And it has nostalgic value. I have helped you to recapture your youth, Arthur Dent. Don’t I get a thank you?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You suppose? Holy shit!’
‘Okay. All right. Thank you.’
Fenchurch was miffed. ‘After all I have done for you. The twenty-twenty vision and the kidney stones.’
‘What?’ said Arthur, alarmed.
‘Didn’t you notice your improved vision? I fixed your retina. Also, my scanners detected a cluster of kidney stones, so I pulverized them.’
Arthur closed his good eye and realized that his other eye was also a good one.
‘That’s amazing. Shouldn’t you have asked?’
‘Should I? Wowbagger allows me independent choice in basic health matters. If you step back into the cubicle, I can return your eye to its original state.’
Arthur blinked and appreciated almost instantly that he enjoyed being able to see properly very much indeed.
‘No. No, Fenchurch. I like this twenty-twenty thing. Thank you very much.’
The computer smiled. ‘You are welcome, Arthur.’
‘And the kidney stones. An entire cluster. That would have been painful, I imagine. So, thanks for that too.’
‘And the clothes?’
‘Perfect,’ said Arthur graciously. ‘If you would just make yourself scarce, I can put them on.’
‘Feedback star?’
‘Go on then.’
‘Thank you, Arthur.’
Fenchurch fizzled out and Arthur put on his school uniform.
Could be worse, he thought. Could be short trousers.
‘Thank you, Fenchurch,’ he whispered.
*
Arthur bumped into Trillian in the corridor.
‘Blimey,’ he said, taken aback. ‘You look fantastic, Trillian.’
‘Really, Arthur?’
Arthur Dent had that particular English personality defect where he dissected any compliment he gave shortly after giving it, effectively hobbling himself.
‘I mean… you always look fantastic. It’s not that you didn’t look fantastic before. You look extra-fantastic now. Mega-fantastic, I suppose I should say, seeing as we’re in space and all that.’
Trillian wore a smart electric-blue trouser suit and wedge boots to her thighs.
‘The computer picked this outfit out of my head. I wore it to interview the President of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. Or rather, I dreamed I wore it, in the construct.’
‘Well, whatever. It suits you.’
‘Plus the computer treated me to a face peel,’ Trillian confided, leaning in close. ‘And balanced out my vitamin and mineral levels. I feel like I could run a marathon.’
‘Me too.’
Trillian tugged the sleeve of Arthur’s jacket. ‘No need to ask where you went to school, then.’
‘Lucky I wasn’t dreaming of the nightclub in Cottington, or I could be wearing shoulder pads right now.’
‘Nice cap, though.’
Arthur hurriedly snatched the hat off his head, stuffing it in a pocket. ‘Didn’t realize I had that on. Habit, I suppose. Have you seen Ford?’
‘I have, actually. He trotted past me on his way to the bridge.’
‘Anything d
ifferent about him?’
Trillian frowned. ‘His hair did seem unusually shiny. Oh, and it was blue.’
Arthur was not surprised. ‘It was only a matter of time. The computer in your room, what did it look like?’
‘My cat, Copernicus. Imagine that. Very clever trick. How about you?’
Arthur stared through a porthole into the deep and endless blackness of space.
‘Just a computer. No face. It didn’t look like anyone.’
Wowbagger’s sleek, golden, interstellar longship sped silently towards Alpha Centauri, dark matter engines revolving behind it, solar sail fluttering above and the Heart of Gold slung underneath like a baby flaybooz in its parent’s pouch.
Guide Note: Contrary to an almost universal norm, it is the male flaybooz who nurtures the young. A full-grown flaybooz can fit up to fifty young in his pouch, but generally there is only room for a couple, as males like to carry around a small toolkit in case of emergencies, maybe a few beers and a copy of Furballs Quarterly.
Ford Prefect poked around the bridge and was hugely impressed. ‘This is something, Wowbagger. Dark matter. Seventy per cent of the Universe is made of this stuff and we can’t even see it. How do you make a ship from dark matter?’
Wowbagger shrugged. ‘The Tanngrísnir? I bought it from a guy a while back.’
‘That’s it? You bought it from a guy?’
‘He swears he stole it from Thor. The Thunder God? It’s his longship, hence the retro design.’
‘I know who Thor is. I met him at a party once.’
‘Tanngrísnir was one of his goats, apparently. I was going to replace the horned ram figurehead, but I’ve heard that Thor is a bit dim and I was worried that he wouldn’t recognize the ship with a new symbol on the prow. I had hoped that maybe he would come after me, dash my brains out with the big hammer.’
‘Wishful thinking,’ guessed Ford.
‘Looks like it. No sign of him so far.’ Wowbagger leaped from his chair. ‘Look, can you not touch that?’
Random was twiddling a glowing button on a console.