by Eoin Colfer
Hillman turned the screen round. ‘Look here. The University of Cruxwan rules on virtual degrees if you can pass the qualifying exam. They can extract the memories with this thing that looks like a robotic octopus.’
‘That is mildly interesting,’ admitted Random, studying the screen. ‘And they offer a satellite programme.’
‘I could put in an application for you,’ said Hillman.
Random recognized his tone from years of virtual negotiations. ‘In return for what?’
‘In return for a little support. I’ll be honest with you, Random, I’m an important man. I can’t be wasting my valuable time dealing with small potatoes. The steamers are piling high here, my girl. Health and safety violations, all those uBid people looking for residences, tax forms from Megabrantis. Your father told me about your background in politics and…’
‘And you want an assistant?’
‘You’ve put your finger on it. And who would be more qualified than yourself?’
Random tutted. ‘Not you, that’s for sure. What’s in this for me?’
‘Experience in the real world. A nice apartment in the village and I’ll start you on a level-three wage.’
‘Level five,’ snapped Random, on principle.
‘Five it is,’ said Hillman quickly, sticking out his hand.
‘Keep your hand,’ said Random. ‘We can shake after the contracts are signed.’
Hillman pushed back his chair. ‘I can see you’re going to be a bucket of chuckles. Okay, then, girlie. Be here at eight sharp tomorrow morning, expect me about ten thirty. You can have the tea ready.’
Arthur felt the spectre of relief hovering over on one shoulder and the spectre of foreboding slumped on the other, having a beer, scratching its behind.
Think positive, he told himself. It could work out.
‘I’ll make your lunch,’ he told Random. ‘Sandwiches okay?’
They might not kill each other.
Hillman reached under the desk and scratched the coarse hair on his thigh. ‘Oh, and I need special shampoo for my new parts. And also you could give me a hand filing my hooves.’
Arthur amended his last thought to They might not kill each other for at least a month, then caught the fire in Random’s glare and realized he was being about a fortnight too optimistic.
Zaphod Beeblebrox made a complete nuisance of himself for a few fun-packed weeks, then decided to sneak off into improbability during the night. He would have preferred to make his exit covered in the confetti from a parade given in his honour, but there was the matter of the gold he had liberated from Hillman’s safe as payment for Thor’s sacrifice. And also there were half a dozen ladies who he may have promised stuff to. Stuff like undying love, a trip to the stars, his pin number.
I’m not here a month, he thought as he skulked up the Heart of Gold’s stairwell. Imagine the damage I could do in a year.
Zaphod Beeblebrox. The best bang since the Big One. Froody.
Ford Prefect knew how much Zaphod appreciated a nice parade and so brought a pocket full of rice with him to bid farewell to his cousin.
‘Farewell, Mr President,’ he called, tossing a handful of the rice into the air over Zaphod’s head. ‘I bet there are a couple of ladies that will miss you.’
Zaphod’s facial muscles executed a very complicated manoeuvre that left his expression somewhere between regal and pained.
‘Thanks for the send-off, cousin. But I am trying to skulk here.’
‘Skulk? Word of the week?’
‘Exactly. I’m making enough ruckus as it is manipulatering this bag without you yelling at me.’
Ford shrugged. ‘Hey, you’re Zaphod Beeblebrox. The Big B. People are going to yell. If I were you, I would never build a silent exit into your escape plan.’
Zaphod squatted for a rest. ‘Zark. You’re right. I wish someone had told me that before Brontitall, I could have avoided all that egg on my face.’
Guide Note: During a previous adventure that has not yet happened, Zaphod time-travelled to the planet Brontitall where the bird people had re-emerged (will have re-emerged. Please alter any subsequent verbs as appropriate. Conjugating, especially the future perfect, tends to freeze the Guide) as the dominant species. Once Zaphod had successfully shrunk and stolen their sacred statue of Arthur Dent (don’t ask), he attempted to sneak back through the spaceport, taking a shortcut through the hatchery. Unfortunately, the hatchery was protected by laser eyes, motion detectors, several disgruntled unborn egg spirits and mini-mac self-targeting weapons. Zaphod’s hair was wounded, and he wiped out an entire generation of bird people with his chin as he fell. During his trial, a freshly permed Zaphod not only claimed diplomatic immunity but managed to counter-sue the avian government for over-zealous security measures.
‘I don’t remember anything about Brontitall,’ said Ford. ‘Don’t tell me you’re having adventures without me.’
‘No. I never do anything without you, Ford. You’re the one person I trust. The only person I can confide in.’
‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Souvenirs. Some cake mix the Critomancers didn’t want. A little microwave oven.’
‘Froody. You can make hot cake.’
‘That’s the plan.’
Zaphod pushed his clanking bag inside the doorway.
‘Are you sure you won’t hitch a ride?’ he asked his cousin.
‘No thanks, Zaph. I have a job to do. This planet doesn’t have so much as a single article in the Guide. I’m going to stick around for a couple of weeks and write it up. Do some research, take a little sun.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Zaphod wistfully.
‘So, why don’t you stay?’
Zaphod struck a pose on the gantry, one leg bent, forearm across his knee. From somewhere an organic bulb flickered on, etching his jaw in crimson light.
‘It’s not my destiny, Ford,’ he said, a sudden breeze fanning his hair behind him. ‘The Universe has different plans for Zaphod Beeblebrox. Wherever there are lonely females, I’ll be there. Wherever cocktails are given free to celebrities, look for me. Whenever some really bad stuff happens to those people with, you know, depressing stuff in their places, Zaphod Quantus Beeblebrox will do his best to make time for it.’
‘Quantus?’
‘I’m trying it out. What do you think?’
‘Good. Very heroic. Better than the last one.’
‘I know,’ said Zaphod ruefully. ‘Pruntipends. Someone should have told me.’
They did their childhood shake. Bum bum boot elbow high five elbow…
‘Okay. Be seeing you, Ford,’ said Zaphod, stepping inside the doorway force field.
‘One more thing,’ said Ford. ‘Arthur’s on this planet so, you know, sooner or later…’
‘Someone will try to blow it up. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an ear on the Sub-Etha. First sign of Vogons and I’ll zoom over.’
‘I’m counting on you.’
The Heart of Gold lifted silently off the spaceport concrete.
‘It never hurts to have a back-up plan,’ said Zaphod, then he was gone.
Left Brain had been plugged into the plasma a bit long and was feeling a little hyper.
‘Look who it is, the great Galactic President, gracing us with his presence.’
Zaphod heaved the sack of gold into a locker. ‘Hey, LB. Nice work with the light and wind machine.’
Left Brain bonked Zaphod with his glass. ‘I don’t appreciate being used as your effects guy. You were elected President of the Galaxy, Zaphod. Don’t you have any dignity?’
Zaphod rubbed his crown. ‘I don’t understand the question.’
He strode to the bridge, passing through several auto-doors that were programmed to recognize him and deliver appropriately laudatory comments as he passed through.
‘Oooh, he looks fit,’ gushed service corridor one.
‘Nice hair, Zaphy,’ piped the central elevator, who had always been a little cheeky.
&
nbsp; ‘You make me wanna be organic,’ said the midship bridge door.
As he sauntered on to the bridge, feeling about fifteen esteemetres better about himself, Zaphod noticed a hammer icon revolving on the main screen.
‘When did that come in?’ he asked Left Brain, who was of course hovering by his shoulder, suspiciously close to the spot where he used to be attached.
‘A few hours ago. I think I have separation anxiety,’ said Left Brain. ‘I miss my neck.’
‘No problem,’ said Zaphod, settling into the captain’s chair. ‘We can get you stuck back on here whenever you like.’
‘No thanks,’ said Left Brain. ‘I can take a few pills for the anxiety, or maybe buy a Hol-O-Trunk. Anything is better than waking up beside an asinine lout like yourself.’
Zaphod thought the word ‘asinine’ to himself several times then immediately forgot it.
‘Play the message.’
‘Background music?’
‘No. Just whatever came in, and I don’t want anyone overhearing this.’
‘Very well. Shields up.’
On screen the hammer icon twirled and became a video box. Thor’s hirsute features filled the screen.
‘Hey, Zaph. Hello, hello. This is a… I bet this isn’t even… Okay, okay, now I see it. We’re on.’ The god composed himself. ‘Hello, Zaphod, this is your client, Thor the Thunder God. I am not dead, as you probably guessed.’
‘I had guessed,’ crowed Zaphod, punching the air.
Guide Note: The whole martyrdom concept has been working well for gods since the mid-morning of time when Raymon the Louche, resident god of Tarpon VII, avoided making a ruling over who owned what baby by faking his own death through orgasmic overdose. Raymon realized that people liked him much better now that he was dead and they tended to base their decisions on third-hand hearsay of stuff he might have whispered under his breath to a deaf leper in a cave. Raymon’s cheque still went directly into his account and now all he had to do was appear in shadowy form to a virgin once every few thousand years and say something cryptic like, ‘The tiny stones will save us all, be sure that you covet the pebbles.’ The Raymon method became such a successful model that soon gods all over the Galaxy were faking their deaths and cursing Raymon for copyrighting death by orgasmic overdose.
Thor leaned in close to the camera. ‘It was the martyr comment. Like you said. I was walking along that big bomb, thinking that if I let it kill me then the humans would think I died for them. So I gave it a hundred per cent up to the Vogon ship when I heard the detonator spark and hid in their pipework for a minute. I thought I’d tap the ship with Mjöllnir, make it look like a bit of shrapnel did for her, but then they just took off into hyperspace. Don’t know why. Don’t care either. Anyway, that’s it. I’m off back to Asgard now, ready for resurrection if you need me. I think I might have pulled my groin though, so give me a while to get my fitness back. Give me a buzz, let me know if the martyr thing worked. Also, get me some gold, I am so strapped it’s not funny. Last thing, keep your eye out for my helmet. I must have lost it in the explosion and it’s my favourite one. I’m going to sign off, I have another call coming in.’ Thor beat his chest with one fist, then winked at the camera. ‘Nice work, manager.’
Zaphod closed the video window, flabbergasted. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe that martyr idea worked. Also, I am amazed that Thor picked up on it, subtle as it is. My stratagems are generally so nuanced that most people need to hear them a couple of times.’
Left Brain bobbed before Zaphod’s eyes. ‘You don’t remember saying anything about martyrs, do you?’
‘No,’ replied Zaphod. ‘But that doesn’t mean I didn’t say it.’
‘So you actually thought your one client was dead?’
‘Of course not. You can’t kill a god. Even that guy who drove into the white hole is still alive, even if his parts are spread across several dimensions.’
‘What about that special bomb?’
Zaphod snorted. ‘The QUEST? Who do you think sold that to the Vogons? I’m surprised it didn’t fall out of the sky. I put a lawnmower engine on that thing.’
Left Brain was quiet for a moment, except for the clicking of spider-bots gathering condensation on the inner curve of his orb.
‘Just the two of us again. What would you like to do?’
Zaphod crossed his boots on the console. ‘I don’t know. Thor’s martyrdom video needs a while to go viral, so we have time on our hands. What were we doing before all this?’
‘We were raising funds for your re-election campaign.’
Zaphod was surprised. ‘We were? But I’m already President.’
‘You were President,’ corrected Left Brain in the patient tone of a pre-school teacher explaining for the umpteenth time why it was not a good idea to drink the paint water, ‘until the moment you were convicted of a first-degree felony.’
‘But everyone still calls me Mr President.’
‘All ex-presidents are known as Mr President.’
‘Isn’t that confusing?’
‘Not for more than half a second, if you have half a brain.’
Zaphod frowned. ‘Do you have to multiply those halves?’
Left Brain steamed in his jar. ‘Just forget the halves. You were president, now you’re not. Is that straightforward enough for you?’
‘So who is the actual President?’
‘Currently?’
‘Yes. And right now.’
Left Brain did not take a moment to consult anything because everyone knew who the Galactic President was, with the exception of all the regular passengers on this ship, with the possible but definitely not definite exception of Ford Prefect.
‘It’s Spinalé Trunco of the Headless Horsemen tribe of Jaglan Beta.’
Zaphod bolted upright, which is not easy when your feet are propped on a console. His heel stumps sparked as he stamped in vexation.
‘What? Trunco? But he has no heads. Not a single head does he have. Zero on the shoulders.’
‘We’ve been through this, Zaphod.’
‘Not in the past twenty minutes, we haven’t. And you know what my retention is like.’
‘I’m surprised you retained retention.’
‘Exactly. Right, LB, enter the coordinates for my constituency.’
‘You don’t have a constituency and if you did it would be the entire Galaxy.’
‘Well take me to the centre of the Galaxy then. If Zaphod Beeblebrox is back, people need to know it. I need to throw up at a club, have liaisons in a toilet. Possibly go on a realty reality show.’
‘I think the first order of business is to get the first degree felony charge reduced to a second degree. That way you can run for office.’
‘Good thinking, LB. Who do we pay off?’
This time Left Brain consulted his data banks. ‘Improbably enough, Spinalé Trunco.’
‘Old Trunco. There was something about him…’
‘No heads.’
‘Not a one. Bastard.’
It took Left Brain a few seconds to hack into the presidential security detail’s schedule.
‘Trunco is currently relaxing at his stable compound on Jaglan Beta.’
‘Then we go to Jaglan Beta.’
Left Brain squinted while he beamed the coordinates to the Improbability Drive. ‘You know Trunco hates you, Zaphod? You might need something a little more tempting than that sack of gold I scanned you with.’
Zaphod gave Left Brain a thumbs-up, and it took the disembodied head a moment to realize that there was something on one of the thumbs. A tiny horned helmet.
‘I might have something to bargain with,’ said Zaphod.
Space
Thor had pulled in to an asteroid to try and connect with Zaphod, and was sitting in a little pocket of oxygen on the surface when he switched over to the incoming call. He didn’t actually need breathable air, but it did help stave off migraine, plus it made talking on the phone a lot easier when he did
n’t have to dig into the magic well just to make his voice heard in space.
‘Thunder God here,’ he said into Mjöllnir’s handle. ‘Talk to me.’
A little golden head appeared on the hammer’s head. ‘Hey, thunder girl, what’s up?’
‘Bishop. Nice to see you. There’s quite a lot up, actually. I have a flock now. Genuine believers. There’s maybe one warrior in the bunch, but it’s a start.’
The chess piece took a pull on his cigarette. ‘That’s great, Thor, and I’m calling you with more good news.’
‘Really? What?’
‘It’s about your video,’ said Bishop. ‘It’s at number one with a couple of billion hits. A regular Sub-Etha sensation.’
Thor’s heart sank. ‘When are they going to let that go? I dress up in one bustier and the Universe never forgets.’
‘No. Not that one. The new one with you clobbering the green guy who insulted everybody. Apparently there are a lot of people thrilled to see him getting his comeuppance.’
‘Number one? Really? That’s fantastic.’
‘Yeah. Lovely hammer action, by the way, leading with your body like I told you. You’re back on top, my friend.’
Thor grinned hugely. ‘This is great. Call Dad and Mom. Call everyone. Big session in my hall tonight. I want mead and pigs and beef and virgins.’
‘What about squid?’
‘No. No squid. But whatever else you can get, and make sure the Valkyrie get an invite.’
Bishop punched the air. ‘The Thunder is back,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ said Thor. ‘The Thunder is back.’
He hung up, took off, then turned round and smashed the asteroid from sheer exuberance.
Hey, said the spirit of Fenrir. That was my tooth.
The Business End
Constant Mown lay on his bunk, staring at his own face in the Barbie mirror.
‘You did the right thing,’ he told himself over and over, though he did switch the sentence structure around a bit to fool his subconscious into thinking it was hearing something new.
‘It was a good thing you did. The right thing.’
Then, ‘What you did back there. That was totally right. A good thing.’
The face in the mirror, inside the pink plastic frame, was friendly but worried. He had saved the Earthlings, it was true, but there were many species on the to endanger list, and that taxpaying citizens trick would only work as often as it was legal – which would not be very often, now that Prostetnic Jeltz had experienced it once.