And Another Thing...

by Eoin Colfer

  We shall be called Nanites, Hillman had decided without the aid of software. And we shall believe in the existence of the planet Nano, which has been prepared for the faithful by God. And, someday, these faithful will be collected in a spaceship and flown off, first class, mind you, to the aforementioned planet, so it would be just as well if the faithful were all gathered in one place awaiting collection by the spaceman. Because otherwise they could miss the flight and either be stuck on Earth for the apocalypse, or have to take a later spaceship, where there might not be so much as a business-class seat left.

  Hillman had thrown the entire gospel together with a couple of locals one drunken weekend in Casey’s Bar in Skibbereen. The only significant problem they encountered was the correct spelling of apocalypse, which Hillman had been hitherto convinced contained an X.

  No one will fall for this, scoffed the tourist board, highly improbable – which of course almost guaranteed that the entire venture would be a huge success.

  The Irish super-rich landed first, followed by Russian and South African. Hillman cut a deal with some English royals for a bit of credibility and the floodgates opened, which really annoyed Hillman as those floodgates had been guaranteed for twenty years and he lost two-thirds of his reclaimed beachfront.

  Three years later, Hillman was head shepherd of his own little mega-wealthy flock who were dying off at a rate of half a dozen per month and leaving sizeable chunks of the Earth’s wealth to Hillman so long as he promised to freeze their heads until the aliens arrived.

  ‘It works because it’s easy,’ Hillman often told Buff Orpington, his second-in-command. ‘You don’t have to do anything to be a Nanite. Nothing gets cut off, nobody holds you underwater, no scripture, no guilt, no commandments. All you have to do is be rich and wear a Nanite T-shirt on Tuesday to the lunch buffet. It couldn’t be easier.’

  Guide Note: In point of fact, there was one religion that was even easier to belong to than Nanoism. The members of the Temple of Softly Softly, which was very popular in the Brequindan Mind Zones, realized that most of the Universe’s major wars had been caused by zealots aggressively spreading their own religion, so they decided that their own method of baptism would be completely painless and could be performed without the knowledge of the baptized. All it took was for one of the faithful to point his smallest digit in your direction for five seconds and softly say ‘Beep’, then as far as they were concerned, you were a member of the church. Within five Brequindan years, the Temple of SS was the fastest growing religion in the Mind Zones. Unfortunately, as there were no holy wars in the name of Softly Softly and not a single person was mutilated, the Temple was not recognized by the Galactic Council of Religions and did not qualify for charitable status and so disbanded in less than half a lunar cycle.

  Hillman Hunter was proud of what he had created and was in negotiations with an Australian minister to build a second compound in the Antipodes. Then, one Thursday afternoon as Hillman sat on the toilet playing a game of pool on his touch-screen phone, a video call came through from an out-of-area number. This intrigued Hillman, as his phone was not a video phone. He took the call, making sure to angle the screen away from his exposed knees, half-thinking that maybe Nano was upset with him for misusing her name and was on the blower from the afterlife.

  A face appeared on Hillman’s screen. It was not Nano’s face; not enough chins or bristles.

  ‘Top of the morning to you,’ said Hillman brightly, taking comfort in his persona. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘I might be the answer to your prayers,’ said the face. ‘I might be the end of your rainbow.’

  Hillman used a catch-all quote from his Nano library. ‘Oh really, O’Reilly?’

  The face frowned. ‘What? What’s that? Please speak clearly. Your accent seems to be confusing my fish, which never happened with the other monkeys.’

  Insane, thought Hillman, not unreasonably. Utterly delusional.

  I agree, Hillers, whispered the voice of his dead grandmother.

  ‘The shapes your mouth is making don’t match the words coming out of it,’ noted Hillman. ‘And, anyway, this phone doesn’t do video.’

  ‘One of the marvels of me,’ explained the mysterious head in a vague manner Hillman would come to know well. ‘And the mouth–word thing is because you are without a Babel fish and so the ship is insta-translating. Okay? Get the picture, ape man?’

  Enough of this larking about, thought Hillman.

  ‘Right-ee-o,’ he said. ‘Well done on the phone hacking, but I must toddle off now. I have a religion to lead.’ He hung up and stood to embark on the complicated fine motor task of buttoning the flies on his tweed trousers.

  ‘Not so fast,’ said the head, which had now appeared, magnified, on the bathroom door. ‘It takes more than disconnecting to cut me off, Hillman Hunter.’

  Hillman dropped his trousers in shock, back-pedalling on to the toilet.

  ‘What in the name of all that’s sacred?’ he gasped. ‘How did you do that?’

  The head scoffed. ‘This? You call this doing something? Here I am ready to hand you the ultimate power trip, and you think throwing a projection on a flat surface with a metal frame is doing something? Hillman, my friend, you are an ignorant pormwrangler. No offence.’

  Hillman hadn’t been taking offence, until he heard the words ‘no offence’. A thought occurred to him.

  ‘Are you from Nano? Is that it? Was I bloody right all the time?’ Hillman had been selling the Nano line for so long that sometimes he half sold himself.

  The head laughed so hard that he was forced to breathe into a paper bag.

  ‘No, you weren’t right, stupid monkey. There is no planet Nano.’ And then his mouth twitched in a sly grin. ‘Not yet, there isn’t.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Hillman, his nose for a deal completely overriding his profound scepticism.

  ‘I have been looking for an investment on your planet, which won’t be around for long, by the way. The Sub-Etha spat out this little compound, and it seems to me that all your elderly rich people would fork over every gold coin they possessed if someone could actually take them to Nano before the Earth explodes. And once they arrived at the mythical Nano, then they would surely need a supreme leader.’

  Supreme leader, thought Hillman, and then: This is such a crock of cow shite.

  Suddenly his Nano’s voice whispered to him, as it often did when his life was at an important crossroads: Take heed, Hillers. This fool can do more for you than he knows. The apoxy-lips is coming and it’s time to be off this planet.

  I knew there was an x, thought Hillman. Aloud, he said: ‘It would take one bejaysus of a convincing argument for this scam to work.’

  The face’s grin grew a couple of incisors wider. ‘How about a big spaceship just appearing out of thin air? Do you think that would persuade the other monkeys?’

  Hillman let the monkey comment pass; this was business, after all. ‘Got any robots?’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ said Zaphod Beeblebrox, for of course it was he. ‘I can get you a floating head.’

  Nano

  So now Hillman Hunter was the big boss on the planetoid, presiding over eighty-seven elderly rich people and their staff. He was wealthy and powerful, but never seemed to have a minute to himself to enjoy it. Retired rich folk, he was quickly finding out, were the most demanding people in the Galaxy. Nothing was ever good enough or ready fast enough. It didn’t help that the Magrathean planet builders were dawdling over the snag list, making a big fuss over every detail as if no one had told them that the houses would need roofs or floors.

  ‘You want windows too?’ the foreman had said, eyebrows almost taking flight in shock. ‘You should’ve said that six months ago. My boys would’ve put them in had we only known. If you want windows now we have to hold off on the plumbers, who are already on site by the way. And that won’t please the painters, who are in after the plumbers. And some of the painters are married to the plumbers,
which will cause tension in the household. And we’re short on workplace masseuses at the moment, so there’s going to be some nasty lactic acid build-up in some of my boys’ shoulders. At the end of the day, it’s your money and your decision. All I’m saying is that you should have said something earlier when it was convenient, instead of throwing the entire project into financial freefall with your wild demands.’

  Guide Note: In all of recorded history, there is only one confirmed instance of a builder acceding to a change in the plans without lapsing into histrionics. This happened in the case of Mr Carmen Ghettim, a Betelgeusean auto dealer who sent plan revisions back in time to inform the builder of the changes before the project started. It should be pointed out that Mr Ghettim had the note delivered by a particularly vicious lantern-jawed terrier.

  When he wasn’t negotiating with builders, Hillman spent his time trying to find a god suitable to rule the planet, a task which was not proving as enjoyable as he had envisaged. Hillman had imagined himself engaging in philosophical conversations on the nature of happiness, or being wowed by awesome displays of godly power. Instead he had been forced to grind his way through a sludge of padded résumés in which demi-gods tried to make themselves sound a lot more significant than they actually were.

  Hillman quickly realized that when a god put in a line on page two about taking a sabbatical for divine contemplation, that actually meant that he had been unemployed for the past ten thousand years. When a god claimed to have gradual meteorological influence, it simply meant that he looked up the forecast and then claimed to be responsible for whatever weather happened. And if a god was making a big deal out of his omnipresence, there was a very good chance that he had a twin brother floating around somewhere.

  Dross, thought Hillman dolefully. Dross and steamers. Not one nugget of quality.

  He was just consigning the latest batch of applications to his desk incinerator when Buff Orpington stuck his head around the door.

  ‘Yep, Buff. Are we set?’

  Buff’s jowly face wobbled. ‘All ready, Hillman. We’re of a mind to kick some ass.’

  Hillman’s mood was not improved by these fighting words.

  Kick some ass? Most of the colonists can barely move faster than a slow jog. Any asses they’re going to kick would have to be stationary, soft and low-slung.

  The asses in question were the drooping buttocks of Nano’s western colonists, who had kidnapped Cong’s French chef for religious reasons, the reason being that they were Tyromancers who firmly believed in divination through the medium of semi-congealed cheese, and Jean Claude’s signature dish was a heavenly four-cheese quiche with capers and smoked salmon. The Tyromancers were fine with the capers and salmon, but had decided that the cheesy filling was heresy.

  The Magratheans warned me things like this might happen, Hillman realized dolefully. Moving planet is the most traumatic thing that can happen to a being, other than being slathered in barbecue sauce and then dropped into a pit with the Bugblatter Beast of Traal, whatever that is. People become fanatical about what they left behind. This Tyromancy started out as a bit of a hobby on Earth but has become a huge obsession on Nano. Aseed Preflux has managed to convert his entire settlement.

  Hillman followed Buff outside and it occurred to him that from the rear Buff looked like a grizzly bear squashed into plaid trousers and a windbreaker; a stout hairball of a man whose arm hair actually swished in the wind.

  In the town square, the troops were lined up ready for inspection, and the line was even worse than Hillman had imagined. There were no staff left, not a single one.

  He rounded on Buff Orpington. ‘Where are the personal trainers?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Not Lewis?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘And the beauty therapists?’

  ‘We haven’t seen a beauty therapist for nearly a week. My Cristelle hasn’t had a manicure in ten days. She’s at her wits’ end.’

  Hillman was shocked. ‘Ten days! That’s barbaric. Why didn’t someone tell me?’

  ‘You were busy with the interviews. This place is falling apart, Hillman. We have barely half a dozen chefs left for the entire town. People are being forced to –’ Buff took a deep breath to steady himself – ‘cook for themselves.’

  Hillman’s Irish temper flared. ‘We did not pay several enormous fortunes to cook for ourselves. What about contracts? These people all signed contracts.’

  Buckeye Brown, a Texan oilman, piped up from the line: ‘My guy, Kiko, told me to stick my contract where the sun don’t shine. He said that this is a new world and we should all be equal. He said we were treating the servants like slaves.’

  Hillman was appalled. This was what happened without a divinely ordained chain of command.

  ‘This has got to end. First we rebuff the invaders, then we get our staff back from the wild for their own good. How can young, fit people with no business skills hope to survive on this verdant new world, bejaysus?’ The ‘bejaysus’ was almost an afterthought. Hillman was so agitated that he nearly forgot who he was pretending to be.

  Buckeye glanced gloomily at the toes of his Ferragamo alligator moccasins, which he was almost certain would scuff in the wild. ‘You want us to go into the wild? My daddy told me about it, but I never done been there.’

  You never done been to school neither, thought Hillman. ‘We’re not going into the wild, Mr Brown. Sure, that’s a game for the young people. No, we’ll tempt those rascals back with Premium Plus Apartments.’

  Buff was horrified. ‘Not lagoon view Premium Plus?’

  ‘If necessary.’

  ‘With twenty-four-hour concierge service?’

  ‘I doubt it. The concierge’s team jumped ship a month ago. We’ll have to give the concierges apartments. Maybe gym memberships too.’

  ‘But the concierges can’t service themselves,’ wailed Buff. ‘That’s just insanity. Has the world gone mad entirely?’

  Like all good salesmen, Hillman was in quick with the solution. ‘Robots, laddie. We’ll get robots. I hear the Sirius Corporation has service androids with genuine people personalities. It’s perfect, what could go wrong?’

  ‘I suppose that might work,’ said Buff, mollified. ‘Or maybe we could import aliens who actually enjoy labouring in the sun. They could pay us. You could look it up on your Hitchhiker book.’

  ‘I will do that, as soon as we send these jokers packing.’

  Hillman looked around John Wayne Square and wondered how things had gone wrong so quickly. Six months ago this plaza had been a stunning centrepiece for their new society and now there were weeds sprouting through the flagstones and strange blue bugs eating holes in the glass.

  We need a god. And fast.

  Buckeye Brown cleared his throat. ‘How do we even know the Tyromancers will mount an offensive today?’

  Buff addressed that one, happy to have solid information to relay. He spread his legs, bouncing slightly on the balls of his heels as though he were about to heft a barbell. ‘It’s the only day they can come. Monday through Wednesday is cheese-making. Friday is the actual reading of the cheese. Saturday and Sunday are for contemplation of the message in the cheese. Thursday is the only day when secular activities are permitted.’

  ‘And we know this how?’

  ‘Oh, Aseed subbed over a mail. In case any of us want to join up. Nice presentation, I have to say. A lot of floating cheese icons. Apparently, if we don’t join up, then we bring Edamnation on the entire planet.’

  Hillman’s jaw flapped for a moment, then: ‘Edamnation? You’re not serious.’

  Buff grinned. ‘Serious as a dry well, Hillman.’ He pulled a crumpled missal from his pocket. ‘Ah… here it is: “The day of Edamnation shall be visited upon the non-believers in a huge and terrifying form, possibly cheese-related, but any huge and terrifying form can be understood to have emanated from the Cheese.” ’

  Hillman was getting pretty cheesed-off with the word ‘cheese’. �
�Huge and terrifying, bejaysus. Who writes this junk?’

  ‘Aseed does. The First Gospel of Tyromancy, he’s calling it.’

  ‘That jumped-up little ginger fartbollix,’ swore Hillman. ‘Who does he think he is?’

  This question brought forth a determined round of not answering from the assembled troops, as Aseed was pretty much identical to Hillman, apart from some styling and sartorial issues. And it appeared that Hillman was the only one who didn’t recognize this.

  Luckily they were spared any embarrassment as Buff’s phone jingled in his pocket.

  ‘Oh, my phone. What a pity – I was just going to answer that question about who Aseed thinks he is, but now my phone is ringing so I better answer that and not actually answer the question. A real shame.’

  He fumbled the cell phone from his pocket and slid it open. ‘Yeah? You sure? Okay. We’re on the way.’ Buff closed his phone then held it aloft with great melodrama. ‘The Tyromancers approach.’

  ‘What? Really? Who was that?’

  ‘It was Silkie. She’s on lookout from the coffee shop in Book Barn.’

  Book Barn was the mall’s highest building, with a glass-walled coffee shop on the third floor. From there, a lookout could keep an eye on the main road while browsing the latest releases. Silkie Bantam usually volunteered for the lookout’s job because she was an avid horror book fan and could get through a few ghoulish chapters while she watched.

  ‘How did she sound?’

  ‘Pissed off. She had to make her own coffee.’

  Hillman felt everything slipping away from him. The Book Barn people too. This Tyromancer squabble had to end today.

  ‘Righto, me laddies,’ he said, stamping a foot to pump himself up. ‘How are we for weapons?’