Sandy wasn’t there, though, so Reid and the Hardys went to look for her. Iola stayed behind because she had a walk-through in the next set of shots.
“Sandy’s probably in her office,” Reid said, leading the brothers across the studio to the brick building that housed the production offices.
“Mr. Reid,” Joe said, “do you think someone could be trying to sabotage the series?”
“I don’t know,” Reid said. “There’s been a lot of strange stuff going on around here lately, that’s for sure.”
“What kind of strange stuff?” Frank asked.
“Like the accident that put Wilson in the hospital,” Reid said. “There have been a lot of repairs, too—things are wearing out or being damaged faster than normal. Props have gone missing as well. All of this is contributing to the show’s budget crunch, and that’s made everyone—including me—jumpy. Whether any of it is deliberate, though . . .” He shrugged.
Though darkness now covered the eerily silent lot, a light still burned in the old brick building that housed Sandy’s office.
“Looks like she’s in,” Joe said.
They walked through an empty reception room and knocked on a door that said Sandy O’Sullivan—Executive Producer.
“Come in,” Sandy’s voice called.
They entered an office piled high with papers, scripts, books, and memorabilia. Most of the souvenirs were from Warp Space, but there was a smattering from other SF shows as well. In the middle of the mess, Sandy O’Sullivan sat slumped over a laptop computer, typing furiously. She looked up as they entered.
“Are we back shooting?” she asked, panic flashing across her gray eyes for a moment. “I’m still adjusting the plot to incorporate the new fight footage.” She kept typing.
“Not yet. In a few minutes,” Frank said.
“Before then, though,” Reid said, “we need to talk.”
Sandy stopped typing. “Talk? About what? Could we possibly do this later? I’m insanely busy at the moment.”
“Sandy, are you firing me?” Reid asked. “Are you killing off my character?”
“What?” Sandy asked, surprised.
“The official Web site says that I’m leaving the show,” Reid said.
“And some fan sites are reporting that Captain Winter will be killed off and replaced by Ensign Allura,” Joe added.
Sandy burst out laughing. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard!” she said. “Bruce, without you there is no Warp Space.”
“Why is the information on the official site, then?” Frank asked. “Mr. Reid said that everything on the site is cleared through the producer’s office.”
“That’s true,” Sandy said. “The Webmasters live in Renton, Washington, but everything that goes up has to be cleared from here. That’s how I know that nothing of the kind is on the site.” Her fingers flew over her keyboard and she quickly connected to the Warp Space site. When the Web page came up, she scowled. “We’ve been hacked!” she said.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Reid said. “I was worried that you might bump off Captain Winter as a publicity stunt.”
“Bruce,” Sandy said, “you should know me better than that. I feel about Captain Winter the way I feel about my dad.”
“Who has the password for uploading to the site?” Joe asked.
“The Webmasters, of course, and Rod and I have it as well,” Sandy said. “So do the studio offices. I’ve got it written down somewhere . . . um”—she reached for a sticky note on the corner of her desk blotter—“here.” She grinned sheepishly.
“Not a very secure system,” Frank said. “Anyone could have seen it there.”
“I suppose,” Sandy said. “Until now it didn’t occur to me that anyone would want to hack the site. A lot of people go through this office on any given day. I shouldn’t have left the password out. What a dope I am!”
“Beefing up security all around would probably be a good idea,” Joe said.
Sandy nodded. “Yeah. Given the troubles we’ve been having, I guess it would. Rats! Who needs this extra pressure?”
“Not me, that’s for sure,” Reid said.
“Do me a favor,” Sandy said. “Don’t mention this to anyone. The last thing we need is the studio bosses getting wind of more troubles on the show. I’ve had a hard time keeping them—and the media—out of our hair as it is. One more fiasco and the studio may decide to shut us down.”
“Don’t worry,” Frank replied. “Joe and I have kept a few secrets in our day.”
“Good,” Sandy said. “I’ll have the Web guys fix that page before it can go any further.”
“Too bad we can’t rein in the fan sites the same way,” Reid said.
“We’ll send out an official release denying the rumor, and—Oh, no!” Sandy said. “The shoot! We need to get back!” She ran across the office and pulled some new script pages out of her printer. Then she sprinted out the door. “I’ll take care of the Web site on the next break,” she called back.
“Full ahead, warp speed,” Joe said jokingly. He, Frank, and Reid followed Sandy out.
When they returned to the set, they found Chet and Gross working on retakes for the fight. This time, though, both the Slayer and the lieutenant commander fought with more caution and less enthusiasm. Everyone on the set looked tired, but nothing indicated that the shooting would end anytime soon.
“Looks like it’s going to be another long night,” Reid said.
Webb shot them a stern look as they entered, then perked up when he saw Sandy. As they wrapped the take, Sandy went over to consult with the director.
Iola sidled over to Chet. “How’s it going?” she asked.
“Pretty slowly,” he replied, his voice muffled by the slayer’s helmet.
“In that case,” Joe said, “I think Frank and I will poke around a little bit, see if we can turn up anything on the troubles the show’s been having.”
“Be careful,” Iola said.
“Take good care of Chet,” Frank replied with a grin.
“I heard that,” Chet said.
As the actors got organized for the next take, Frank and Joe quietly left the starship’s engine room. They wandered through the soundstage, checking out the other sets.
“The main question I see here,” Frank said, as they walked past the shuttle bay, “is who has something to gain from the show’s problems.”
“You’d think that no one would have anything to gain,” Joe said. “If the show gets shut down, everyone loses.”
“Maybe this stuff isn’t intended to get the show shut down, though,” Frank said. “Maybe it’s all some kind of crazy publicity stunt.”
“Could be,” Joe said. “I know that some people think that any publicity is good publicity. It might even be to Reid’s advantage to stir up some rumors about himself. The attention could help his sagging career.”
Frank nodded. “Yeah. You could make the same kind of argument for Jerri Bell, Geoff Gross, Ramon Torres, or even Claudia Rajiv. Plus, any of the characters might be promoted to captain if Reid left. The show itself could benefit from extra publicity, too.”
“Sandy seems to be trying to keep all the trouble quiet, though,” Joe said. “If the show is really on the edge, this kind of publicity could backfire and shut everything down.”
“Which brings us back to who would benefit if that happens,” Frank said. They meandered through the darkened ship’s infirmary, toward the bridge set.
“I still think Gross and Torres are strong candidates,” Joe said. “They’re both hotheaded, and we’ve seen that tendency override their team spirit already.”
“Hold it!” Frank said quietly, coming to a sudden stop.
“What?” Joe whispered.
Frank said nothing but pointed to the bridge set, only a few yards away. The set was nearly as dark as the infirmary. A handful of lights from the ship’s control panels cast a dim, multicolored glow around the room.
As the brothers watched, a s
hadowy shape rose up from behind one panel and slipped over to the next. As it crossed through the pale lights, the Hardys got a good look at the intruder. The prowler stalking the bridge was not human.
10 Beneath the Mask
The creature moving between the control panels had pointed ears, two stubby antennae, and scaly blue skin. The thing didn’t spot the brothers as they watched it. It quietly moved to the next console and stuck its inhuman head under the panel.
“Looks like we may have our saboteur,” Joe whispered. He grinned slyly. “It figures that it’d be someone from outer space.”
“We don’t have him yet,” Frank replied quietly. “But if you slip behind the next set over we can come at him from two sides. There’s no way he can escape, whoever he might be under that makeup.”
Joe nodded his agreement with the plan and silently moved around to the other side of the set. When he reached the opposite end of the bridge, he signaled to Frank and both of them stepped out from their concealment.
“Hold it right there!” Frank said.
“This is the last set you’ll sabotage!” Joe added.
The alien jumped at the sound of their voices but held the screwdriver tightly in his scaly blue hand.
“Drop the screwdriver,” Joe said. “Don’t make this tougher on yourself than it has to be.
“W-What?” the alien sputtered.
Frank took a step closer and assumed a martial arts attack stance. “We mean it,” he said. “Drop the screwdriver!”
The alien did as he was told. “Okay, okay. No need to get violent. It’s just me,” he said, pulling his mask off, “Stan Pekar.”
“What are you doing messing with the set?” Frank asked.
The wiry special-effects man took a deep breath and sat down in the command chair. “Boy,” he said, “you guys really gave me a scare. Warn a fellow next time, okay? I wasn’t ‘messing’ with the set, I was fixing it. With all the troubles we’ve had lately, Rich Millani is running behind on repairs, so he asked me to pitch in.”
“In the dark?” Frank said.
“You can’t fix the faults in these luminous panels with the overhead lights on,” Pekar said. “The big lamps blind you, making it hard to locate the problem. That’s why I was using a flashlight.” He pointed to where the flashlight lay on the floor.
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Joe asked.
Pekar frowned. “Ask Rich, if you want,” he said. “Unless maybe you’re of the same opinion that Rod Webb is—that Rich and I are working together to rip off the show.”
“Are you?” asked Frank.
“Of course not,” Pekar scoffed. “Why would I jeopardize my reputation for a penny-ante operation like this? I don’t need this job. I came out of semiretirement because the show sounded like fun. It hasn’t been a lot of laughs lately, though. Why are you guys so interested in this? You’re on the set for only a week, and you don’t even have a walk-on.”
“We’re concerned for the cast and crew,” Joe said. “If this show folds, it’ll take a lot of good folks down with it, not to mention the fans who’d be disappointed.”
“And that’s not even counting Chet and Iola,” Frank added. “So long as they’re involved, we can’t just walk away.”
“Yeah,” Pekar said. “I know how you feel. That kind of loyalty’s kept me going, too. Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s all worth it.”
“You’ve been involved with movies and TV for a long time,” Frank said. “What’s your take on all this?”
“Well,” Pekar said, “I’ve been around since most of the people working on Warp Space were in diapers. I remember when Rod Webb was lurking around sets doing pickup gaffer and grip work. My career was in full swing when Bruce Reid was a teen heartthrob on Hunk High School and Claudia Rajiv was doing lollipop commercials. So, yeah, I’ve seen a lot.”
“And . . .” Joe prodded. He took a seat behind one of the consoles near the command chair. Frank did the same.
Pekar shrugged again. “Warp Space is no better or worse than most TV shows in terms of personnel. There’s a lot of talent here, sure, but there are a lot of social climbers as well. Most of the folks involved with the show will do anything to get ahead.”
“Not you, though,” Frank said.
“When you’ve got a couple of Oscars on your shelf, you don’t have to look for work,” Pekar said. “Most of this is just old hat to me, but I still find it fun. When I don’t, I’ll retire again.”
“Do you think that’ll be soon?” Joe asked.
“It depends on the day,” Pekar said. “Most days, I’m having a blast. Other days it’s just one crisis after another. Some days, like today, I start out doing makeup and end up jury-rigging together electronic gizmos.”
“You and Millani work on the electronics together, right?” Frank said.
Pekar nodded. “Yeah. Doing production work on props and stuff is a lot of fun. The annoying part is how many things disappear around here. Some, like the insignia that fell off the Slayer’s outfit during the fire the other day, are just normal production accidents.” He shrugged again. “Nothing you can do about that kind of stuff. Other things, though . . . Well, let’s just say that I’m pretty sure someone around here has light fingers.”
“And Rod Webb thinks it’s you and Millani?” Joe asked.
“Not exactly,” Pekar said, scowling. “He thinks we’re cutting production on the props and skimming the cost savings for ourselves. Underproducing and skimming would be a stupid idea for someone in my profession. My clients have to trust me to work reliably within a budget. But Rod’s had stupid ideas before, and I’m sure this won’t be his last one.”
“It sounds like you don’t care for him much,” Frank said.
“He’s okay—for a director,” Pekar said. “Most of the cast and crew are wrapped up in their own problems; Rod’s no different. If the show sinks, his wallet takes a hit; if it flies, he’s locked into a long contract, which limits his options. It’s the same with the rest of the cast. Even when they win, they lose. Right now, the show is in limbo. The crew can’t count on the income continuing, but they can’t start looking for other work, either. That’s why everybody’s so edgy. If things don’t calm down soon, though, it could become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Warp Space could disintegrate on its own even before the studio accountants pull the plug.”
Pekar stood up and stretched. “Personally, I’m not too concerned. I’ll either land on my feet or go gracefully into retirement—again. I’d be a happier man, though, if I could figure out where those missing props and souvenirs are going. Nearly everyone has lost something.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for the missing stuff,” Joe said.
Pekar chuckled. “Good luck. You guys seem to know what you’re doing, but showbiz is a world of its own. Almost no one plays it straight in this business. Everyone has hidden motives and agendas.”
“Everyone but you?” Frank said.
“Yeah,” Pekar said, smiling. “Everybody but me.”
“We found a smashed Slayer from Sirius figurine the other day,” Joe said. “Was that one of the missing items?”
“It could be,” Pekar said. “I think more of those figurines went missing from the studio offices than actually got used for promotion. One day they’ll turn up at an online auction site, I’m sure. Or maybe we’ve just got a giant mutant packrat running around the lot.”
“Speaking of giant mutants,” Frank said, “what’s with the disguise?”
“Oh, this?” Pekar said, holding up the blue, scaly mask. “It’s something new I’m trying out. Makeup is a long and expensive process. Masks, on the other hand, are quick and easy. We could save both time and money if we used more alien masks on the show. The trouble is, masks usually look phony on camera.”
“That one looked pretty realistic,” Joe said. “We could almost believe you were a real alien skulking around the set.”
Pekar smiled. “Yeah, good
. That’s the effect I wanted. It’s easy to move around in and see out of, too. That’s why I was wearing it to do repairs—kind of a torture test. We’ll see how it holds up under the lights, though.”
Frank and Joe stood. “Well, good luck with that,” Joe said.
“Yeah, thanks,” Pekar replied. “Hey, I need to get back to work on these panels. If I don’t, Rich will have to do it before shooting starts tomorrow.”
“No problem,” Frank said. “Thanks for talking to us.”
“My pleasure,” Pekar said. “Next time, though, give me some warning before you sneak up on me. A heart attack would end my career quicker than a hundred angry directors.”
The brothers laughed and headed for the shooting set; Pekar went back to his work.
The Hardys arrived at the engine room just as shooting wrapped for the night. All the actors looked exhausted, and director Webb seemed worn out, too.
“See you all bright and early tomorrow,” Sandy said, trying to appear more energetic than she looked. “We made good progress today,” she added.
“But we’re still behind schedule, and dangerously close to breaking the budget with overtime costs,” Webb put in. “Remember, we’ve got shooting at the park again at the end of the week, too. So, everyone be on top of your game tomorrow. Go home. Get some rest.” With this last comment, he looked pointedly at Claudia and Jerri. “I know that’s what I intend to do,” he finished.
“Me, too,” Sandy said. “I could sleep for a week. But until four or five A.M. will have to do.”
“See you all in the morning,” Bruce Reid said. The others muttered their goodbyes; most headed for home, though some—Chet and Iola included—went to the makeup room. There, Marge Nelson quickly removed their prosthetics and paints.
Less than an hour later, the Hardys and the Mortons returned to the trailer they were sharing. Iola and Chet quickly collapsed onto their beds.
“Acting is hard work!” Iola said.
“You expected all bright lights and glamour?” Joe asked.
Trouble in Warp Space Page 7
