Dead Space

by Lee Goldberg

  Because Goddard's a fucking lunatic, that's why. And Eddie Planet certainly couldn't be blamed for the actions of an insane person, not that anyone knew he and Goddard met. And even if someone did know, what did Eddie do wrong? Nothing. He shot the shit with him. Schmoozed. Commiserated. It's not like he told Goddard to go out and kill somebody.

  No one could prove anything because Eddie Planet didn't do anything.

  The only thing Eddie Planet had to worry about now was what to do with all the money he was going to make off the show fate had just given him.

  Eddie was half-way to his bungalow when he remembed he had new digs now. He'd taken over Conrad Stipe's old office and inherited his double-D secretary. Her name was Brougham, which her mother thought was very classy, since it seemed like every elegant car that passed their trailer park was a Brougham-this or Brougham-that.

  She took the news of Stipe's death well. She started scraping his name off the door with a letter-opener. Brougham was still doing that when Eddie came in.

  "There's someone waiting in your office," she said.

  "Who?" Eddie asked.

  Brougham shrugged, which wasn't easy, considering the considerable weight of her bust. "She's some writer Mr. Stipe hired. She was in the office when I got back from lunch."

  Eddie tossed his ice pack on Brougham's desk and strode into his office, stunned to see a woman in a sleeveless t-shirt sitting at the desk, hunched over a copy of the Beyond the Beyond pilot script. She had rings in her nose, lip, ear and eyebrow, and a Confederation insignia tatooed on her shoulder.

  Eddie suddenly realized there was one angle he forgot to consider. The Beyonders. Stipe probably hired her to curry favor with the fans, which reminded Eddie that he'd have to do something to mollify Guy Goddard, short of giving the nutball his part back.

  "Sit down," Melvah Blenis scribbled something in the margin of the script, "I want to finish this thought."

  Eddie walked up to the desk, snatched the script from her, and dropped it in the garbage without even looking at it. "Get out of my office before I drag you out by your nose ring."

  "That's an Orgoglian Mating Clip, which you'd know if you weren't completely illiterate," Melvah bent over, lifted a stack of magazines off the floor, and dumped them on the desk. "Before you embarrass yourself any further, read these."

  Eddie glanced at the magazines, xeroxed copies of Beyondzine with badly drawn caricatures of the Beyond the Beyond cast for covers. He'd seen a few fanzines before, but the only ones he paid any attention to featured Dr. Kelvin in a variety of explicit positions. He liked those.

  "Conrad Stipe may have created the show, but he was completely out of touch with the universe. A lot has changed in twenty years, and he didn't stay on top of it," Melvah said. "The mistakes start on the first page of his script. Stipe thought the Zidruts were still at war with the Nerglids, even though the Zidrut homeworld was consumed by Flerbian Fungus in a classic story published way back in Beyondzine #112."

  Eddie knew now he was dealing with a hard core Beyonder, which meant her grasp on reality was about as firm as a Hollywood promise. He turned to the outer office. "Brougham, call security."

  "Belay that order," Melvah snapped, getting both Eddie and his secretary's attention. "If you're going to make calls, start by getting me an office. I've got to start rewriting this piece of shit."

  She handed Eddie her studio drive on pass. It was called in by Clive Odett's office.

  "I'm Melvah Blenis, your new producer," she said. "You got a problem with that, take it up with The Company."

  She was represented by Clive Odett? How could that possibly be? He needed time to sort this out. He didn't want to risk angering Clive Odett or Guy Goddard at this point.

  "Why would I have a problem with that? I'm glad to have someone as knowledgeable as you on board," Eddie gathered up the magazines and handed the pile to her. "I want you to take these and show them to the other writers right away. Brief them on every detail of the universe. We don't want to make any more mistakes."

  The other writers were stuck in a trailer clear across the lot. It would take her 45 minutes just to walk there and would keep her far away from him until he got figured out all the angles.

  "What about the first episode?" Melvah asked.

  "Send me a memo," Eddie wouldn't read it, but he'd sell it for a buck a page. Before she could argue, he pushed her out the door and slammed it shut.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ever since his electrifying encounter with Dr. Kelvin, Thrack of Oberon's super-warp plasma pleasure warhead was in a constant state of launch readiness.

  When Melvah returned to the starship Endeavor's Van Nuys landing site, and saw Thrack waiting for her in the shuttle port, his silver space-pants bulging, she thought he was just very glad to see her. She opened the back-door of her Econoline van, climbed in and sprawled out on the brown shag carpet. He eagerly jumped in after her.

  After thirty minutes of intense, deep space exploration, she emerged from the van sweaty, weak-legged and satisfied. He was exhausted, spent, and most of all, amazed because, as anyone could see, his super warp plasma pleasure warhead was still on the launch pad.

  "It's your lucky day," he reached for her, but she squirmed away.

  "I have to brief the Captain," Melvah said, and wobbled towards the ship.

  She opened the screen door to the bridge and entered to find Captain Pierce in his command chair, drinking a glass of orange Tang. Bev Huncke sat at ops, Artie Saputo on his knees in front of her, his head pinned between her legs as she stapled a big, rubber Zorgog ear to his skull.

  The Captain swiveled in his chair towards Melvah as she strode in. "Report," he demanded.

  "The alien impersonating you has been destroyed, sir," she replied.

  He sat up straight and nodded, pleased. "Then the way is clear for me to resume my command."

  "Not quite, sir." she said. "The conspiracy is larger than we thought."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Pinnacle Pictures controls the show. They won't let you take command. They're already replacing Stipe and the cast with more of their own."

  "They're insidious," Pierce gazed at the main view screen, pondering the grave situation.

  That's when Thrack came in behind Melvah, slamming the screen door. Capt. Pierce whirled around, irritated by the interruption, and saw Thrack's groin saluting him.

  "Damn it, I ordered you to do something about that," Pierce snapped, disgusted.

  "I tried, sir," Thrack whined. "It just won't go away."

  "I can vouch for that," Melvah replied. "It defied my best efforts."

  Bev Huncke released Artie's head and set her bloody stapler on the console. "Maybe I should try, sir." She hadn't had sex in six years, and even then it was with an unconscious bicyclist hit by a car on Mulholland. Her car, to be exact.

  Pierce glanced at Melvah. "Opinion?"

  Melvah shrugged. "If you believe it will work, Captain."

  "I can't think with that in my face," the Captain said, then nodded at Bev. "Permission granted."

  Bev rose, with some effort, from her chair and waddled outside. Thrack took a deep breath and followed after her.

  "If that doesn't work," Artie said. "I can rig a small explosive."

  Artie stood up and looked at his reflection in Mr. Snork's view screen. He liked what he saw. The horsey ear was a definite improvement.

  For a moment, he thought about plucking out his other eye and getting another Zorgog one, then it occurred to him he would be blind.

  Captain Pierce massaged his temples. "The infernal aliens. There must be a way to stop them."

  Melvah crouched beside the Captain's chair and lowered her voice. "If I may make a suggestion, sir."

  He leaned towards her. "Yes?"

  "We need a powerful agent who can convince the studio to give you the role."

  Captain Pierce narrowed his eyes and sat back in his seat. "You're suggesting we find an alien who speaks t
heir language to negotiate their surrender."

  "And I know just the man, Clive Odett." Melvah was doing her part for Zita, who held up her end of the bargain by getting her on the show.

  "Very well. Prepare an away team," The Captain said. "Then bring this agent to me."

  * * * * * *

  Shari was in her bathrobe the next morning, leaning over the toaster, waiting for her Pop Tart to pop up, marveling at all the good luck that had come her way.

  All it cost her was a nipple. A small price to pay for untold millions in merchandising royalties. And if she had known Eddie would get her ex-husband's show in the deal, it would have been a seriously premeditated murder.

  Even without the handsome financial rewards, she didn't have any regrets. Stipe deserved to die for killing her career.

  He cast her in the pilot off a Man from UNCLE guest-shot and an incredible blowjob in his office. She was eager to be a series star, but in telling her about the part, he left out the bit about the computer breasts. By the time she found out, she was already signed. But he had her convinced she would be such a big star when the series was over, it wouldn't matter.

  "Sally Field was Gidget, a teenage surfer slut, and they made her the Flying Nun," Stipe said. "You think giving people an excuse to stare at your fabulous knockers for an hour will be a liability?"

  She wasn't entirely convinced, but while they were shooting the series, they were both so stoned, she didn't worry about typecasting or anything else. There was always some heroin for the heroine when Stipe was around. She gladly wore the lowest-cut uniforms they could get away with, and jumped at the chance to do a nudie spread in Playboy. In fact, she jumped at everything, even Stipe.

  It was only after the series bombed, and she found herself married to Stipe, that the nightmare sank in. The only people in America who watched the fucking show were casting agents.

  One day, she came home to find that Stipe gone, along with their bank account, credit cards, even her jewelry.

  She ended up dancing at an airport strip-joint, where she discovered she had a following among horny men with bad skin and started her own fan club.

  The fan club grew into a small, Beyond the Beyond mail-order business that, combined with the stripping, kept her comfortable. It was at the club that she met Eddie, who said he was there casting for Saddlesore, the hit western he was producing. Shari said she wasn't aware TV was doing topless westerns. Eddie said he wasn't looking for bodies, he was looking for charisma.

  So Shari gave him some charisma in the backseat of his Lincoln Continental, which she parlayed into a bit part on Saddlesore and a quickie wedding in Vegas.

  But Eddie's career went up and down, mostly down, and she'd resigned herself to it when the new Beyond the Beyond came around.

  Now she couldn't believe all the good luck that was coming her way. It was even rubbing off on Eddie. She hadn't counted on Eddie getting her ex-husband's show.

  She was so lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear Eddie creeping up behind her, his broken nose swollen, the Pop Tart in his monogrammed pajamas ready for her toaster. He yelled "Gotcha," grabbed her breasts and rubbed himself against her.

  She yelped in pain and jammed her elbow into his doughy stomach. He staggered back into the refrigerator, activating the drink dispenser, which shot a stream of cold water right into his ass.

  Eddie squealed, then glared at her furiously. "What the matter with you?"

  She thought: my ex-husband chewed my tit off, you stupid fuck. She said: "I'm so sorry, honey."

  She rushed up to him, covering his face with kisses. "My boobs are tender, it's that time of month."

  His wife was the only woman he knew who's time of the month lasted four weeks. "Can't you reschedule? We're celebrating."

  "Of course we are, poochy," she pulled down his pajamas and took his schmeckle in her hand, pumping it back to life. "You're the executive producer of Beyond the Beyond."

  "That's right, baby. Single card, top of the show."

  "You're the big man," she felt him pulse in her hand. "Everyone has to answer to you."

  "I'm the show-runner," he panted. Twenty-two episodes, on-the-air, was truly the best aphrodisiac.

  "And I'm the star," she said.

  "The star?"

  She stopped her pumping. "Of Beyond the Beyond."

  He looked at her blankly, his schmeckle throbbing in her fist. She chastised him with painful squeeze.

  "Reprising Dr. Kelvin," she said. "It's my character, Eddie."

  "You can't," he said.

  "Why not?" She let go of him. "You're the show-runner, aren't you?"

  "Yes, but someone else already has the part."

  "Fire her," she demanded.

  "You'll always be the original, classic Dr. Kelvin," he said, pleadingly. "But Spring Dano is the right demographic for the show."

  She couldn't believe this. For twenty five years, people only saw her as Dr. Kelvin. She couldn't get any other part.

  You'd make a great Dr. Quinn, but the show is a western, and everyone thinks of your breasts as 25th century computers...

  You can't play Amelia Earhart. It'll pull audiences out of the story. They'll be thinking the whole time, 'what the fuck does she care about a plane trip, she's been to Mars...'

  Sure, you'd make a wonderful cop. In outer space. This show takes place on the mean streets of urban America...

  And now that there was finally another opportunity to play Dr. Kelvin, her one and only role, suddenly she wasn't right for it.

  You'll always be Dr. Kelvin, but you aren't the right demographic for the show.

  It wasn't fair.

  Eddie, seeing the rage on her face and the prospect of a thorough handjob evaporating, knew he had to make good fast.

  "Don't worry, baby, Eddie's gonna take care of you," Eddie gave her a smile, his pajama pants bunched around his feet. "You can be the voice of the ship's computer."

  She shoved him against the refrigerator, which shot another stream of ice water at his ass. He yelped and jumped away from the offensive appliance.

  "The computer is going to be a major character," Eddie said. "Sexy, spunky and opinionated."

  She plucked her pop tart out of the toaster and walked out of the kitchen. Their marriage just ended. If he couldn't even get her a part on his own show, what good was he? She decided to divorce him before the first merchandising dollar came in. She'd kill him, but if two husbands turned up dead in one week, it was sure to draw some attention.

  "What about me?" he whined. "I've got some husbandly needs here."

  "Stick it in your computer," she replied. "I hear it's very sexy."

  * * * * * *

  Eddie's first act as executive producer was to issue a memo that all the trash from the Beyond the Beyond writing and production offices was to be collected and brought to him for "security purposes." He had Brougham pack up all of Stipe's notes, memos, and rough drafts, which he was having shrink-wrapped for sale at the big "BeyondCon" convention next week. Now that Stipe was dead, even a post-it note reminding him to have a boil lanced was worth fifty bucks.

  His second act as executive producer was to take Stipe's Beyond the Beyond premiere script with him to the executive bathroom for a thorough read. In his opinion the episode, The Terror Trout of Talos-10, wasn't bad, your typical fish-people-kidnapping-women- for-breeding-experiments story. What it needed was a few more battles, a sexy computer voice, and a recurring character for Jackson Burley to play.

  Eddie was still sitting on the toilet, the script open on his lap, when the bathroom fax chirped and spit out William Katt's resume. The Beyond the Beyond cast wasn't even buried yet, and already agents were hitting Eddie up with potential replacements.

  The bathroom phone rang. Eddie snatched it up.

  "If that's Billy Katt's agent," Eddie said, "tell him we found someone younger looking who has more female appeal. Tell him we cast Ernest Borgnine."

  "It's Clive Odett calling for you," his
secretary said.

  Eddie shit when he heard the news. Literally. But it was a good thing, he'd been sitting on the toilet constipated for the last 45 minutes.

  "Put him on hold," Eddie said, "I'm in a meeting."

  He hung up the phone, giggled and stamped his feet. Only a few days ago, Clive Odett dismissed him as the car detail guy. Now he was calling to sign him.

  God, Eddie loved the TV business.

  Now he knew, without a doubt, that all his stars were in alignment. He could feel, in the very marrow of his bones, that this show was going to be his second coming. Watch your back, Aaron Spelling. Eddie Planet is coming at you.

  Eddie picked up the phone. "Clive, it's so good to hear from you. It's been too long." They'd never actually met, except for the car-detailing thing, but Clive Odett wouldn't know that. Agents in Odett's league thought they knew everybody, and when they genuinely did know you, then you had it made.

  "Yes, it has, Eddie," Clive replied. "I wonder if you're free for lunch today."

  "Let me check," Eddie flipped loudly through his script. His current agent, Stumpy Leftcowitz, had offices coast-to-coast. Unfortunately, they were all Kinko's copy centers. Stumpy was the one guy in America who took Kinko's "we're your branch office!" ads at their word. Stumpy's biggest client was the decapitated head of a celebrity dog, which was attached to a malfunctioning robot in the hilarious UBC sitcom Boo Boo's New Dilemma.

  "I guess I can move some players around, open up a space for you on the board."

  "I'm so very glad to hear it," Clive said, his voice flicking out of the phone like a serpent's tongue. "I have a meeting with Alf's people at Celebrity Galaxy. We'll meet afterwards." Click.

  Eddie slammed down the receiver and stood up, so preoccupied with the surprising turn of events, he didn't even notice that he wiped himself with William Katt's resume instead of the toilet paper.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gharlane was inside his storage unit, scrutinizing an old issue of Big Hooters with a jeweler's loupe, when Charlie Willis scooted by in his golf cart on routine patrol of the facility. After so many months away from home, it felt good to do something routine for a change.