by Linda Jaivin
‘Guess he, uh, decided to go on ahead,’ observed Torquil.
Ping! Jake suddenly found himself backstage.
‘I wish you guys wouldn’t do that,’ he said crankily, as Doll stifled a giggle. His Fuct t-shirt had come through inside-out and back-to-front.
Even God had his little jokes.
As Jake was putting his shirt back on, Baby pulled him to one side. ‘We have to talk.’
Oh no! Not again! But wasn’t everything going well? Like, well enough so that you didn’t have to talk about it?
‘It looks like we’re in a wee nano of trouble. It’s a long story, but the short version is that we’re going to have to make treks sooner than I expected.’
‘Tracks,’ Jake said, ever helpful. ‘Make tracks.’
‘No, treks. Star treks. They’ve sent a search party from our home planet. If they catch us they’ll force us to go back and who knows what they’ll do to us then. Punishmentville for sure. We’re going to have to take off right after the concert. If you want to come too,’ Baby offered casually, ‘you can. I don’t know where we’re going, exactly, and I don’t know how long we’ll be there, but I wouldn’t mind, you know, spending some quality continuum space-time with you.’ As she spoke she hung a plastic ID around his neck. It said ‘Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space: Access All Areas’. ‘There,’ she giggled, ‘it’s official.’
Jake was over the moon. ‘Yeah, great,’ he said. What the fuck was she talking about? Going where? Baby, don’t go.
‘Babes! Babes!’ The cheers for the Babes began halfway through the support band’s set. Outside the stadium people were pleading tearfully with the guards to let them in. There were no scalpers—no one who managed to get a ticket would have parted with it under any circumstances. The guards, bewitched by the Babes’ presence, let more people in than they should have. Like, maybe twenty or thirty thousand more. By the time the lights dimmed for the Babes, the crowd was hysterical with anticipation. The ambulance tent had already treated dozens of people for whiplash caused by overly boisterous Mexican waving. They’d given away thousands of condoms as the mere proximity of the Babes had brought on a veritable love frenzy.
A strobe projected millions of spinning stars onto a black backdrop. Comets shot through the night and a large hologram of the moon rose above the stage, inciting a great gasp of appreciation from the audience. Next, as lasers crisscrossed the sky, a spotlight came up over the drums to reveal Doll, in a sleeveless black leather minidress, black tights and knee-high boots, lightly brushing the cymbals. Lati then strode onto the stage in a lime green PVC catsuit, with thigh-high kelly-green patent leather boots, and picked up her bass. Her riffs were nearly drowned out by shrieks and screams and the general roar of adulation and astonishment as Baby floated onstage in an anti-gravity space suit. Wrenching off the helmet and tossing it into the crowd, she shook free her tumbling mass of plaits and, still high above the stage, launched into their new hit single ‘Chaos is my Best Friend’. As she sang, she ripped off the spacesuit, limb by limb, in a space-age strip tease, just like Jane Fonda in Barbarella, only raunchier. The spacesuit had been filled with helium, and each part she removed floated up into the air above the stadium and then far away. Underneath, she was wearing a minidress made entirely of mirrors, like a disco ball. Her long legs were covered in sparkly black tights, ripped and torn specially for the occasion by Revor, and on her feet were a pair of specially made silver Blundstones. By the time she’d floated down to the stage and picked up her guitar, the mosh pit was steaming and bubbling like some great witches’ cauldron. The magic of the Babes was such that no stage diver ever came crashing to ground, no mosher ever copped a foot in the face, no girl was so much as touched up against her will and, despite the intensity of the mosh, no one suffered even a crushed toe or bruised rib.
Next, they played the ever-popular ‘Abduction’.
I wanna be your abductee,
Tied and captured and wild and free,
Oh darlin’ you were meant for me.
Prod me with your stethoscope
Stick me with needles—I can cope.
I wanna be your abductee
The crowd joined in on the chorus with an enthusiastic roar:
Tied and captured and wild and free!
A cheer went up when Revor hunched across the stage to take Doll an extra drumstick, the roadie’s roadie in a black t-shirt and sneakers, and with more keys on his belt than even Henry the mixer.
At some point in the fourth song, there was a sudden commotion. All eyes raised to the sky as Pallas descended, rockets blazing. The spaceship blinked and glowed. A strobe light swirled from the nose of the craft and swept the crowd. ‘HOOWEEE!’ screamed the punters. This was better than Voodoo Lounge and Zoo TV and Madonna put together!
A flock of Cherubim appeared next, close on the tail of Pallas, chittering and chattering in their spirally language like some insane loop on a dance track. Which is exactly what the crowd took it for. More cheers greeted the Cherubim, who flew hither and thither, flapping their wings madly, and shedding feathers over the fans, who enthusiastically scrambled to souvenir them.
The Channel Three news helicopter had arrived on the scene too, along with a rather distressed paraglider who’d got caught in the updraft.
Now the hatch on Pallas popped open and Qwerk appeared in the doorway. The last thing Captain Qwerk ever intended was to become a sideshow at a rock concert. He was trembling so violently that he sounded like someone attacking a giant gong with a hammer, a sound that blended in perfectly with Doll’s madcap drumming. Qwerk was rockin’ the groove.
Steadying himself, he stepped out now, a Lobot-a-tron semi-automatic pacifier in hand, and immediately shrunk back in horror at the sea of shrieking faces, tossing hair, waving fists and pogo-ing bodies, more hysteria and erotic energy per square metre than he had imagined could be contained safely in the entire cosmos. And there on stage, the cause of all this insanity and chaos: the babes themselves.
‘Close Encounter You!’ screamed the punters, sure that these fabulous FX were the cue for that particular hit. Two teenage girls with pink and yellow mohawks broke through the barricades, dashed up to Qwerk, gave him a big smacking wet kiss on each cheek and then, flashing the victory sign to the cheering crowd, ran back into the mosh.
It was a Nufonian’s worst nightmare. This is what Nufonians like when they come to Earth: Nufonians like a discreet arrival, preferably on some lonely stretch of highway in the middle of the night, when they are least likely to disturb anyone. Meeting Earthlings, they like to keep a certain distance, for Nufonians cherish the notion of, and this is not a pun, personal space. They do not like to kiss Earthlings. Even the sex tends to be a bit clinical—recall, if you will, the laboratory-like feel of the sexual experimentation chamber. They always ask politely to be taken to Earthlings’ leaders, for they like going through proper channels.
Qwerk, unclinically smooched and improperly channelled, stood frozen as a teardrop on Pluto.
I had a dream
about a hill
about a boy
about a girl
you weren’t there
in the light…
No sooner did the Babes finish ‘Close Encounter You’ then the punters screamed for ‘Hangar 99’.
At this moment, the Alphas, Sirians, Zetas and others arrived on the scene in force. Because they had neither tickets nor wings, they hadn’t been able to get past the gates, but one of the Sirians remembered something he’d once seen on an old episode of Twilight Zone and they passed through a crinkle in time. This put them at the stage ten minutes earlier than when they’d started out. Most of the Sirians were wearing their Elvis jumpsuits, though one had found his ET mask and was wearing that.
A Sirian made the first move. Nimble as, he leapt onto Captain Qwerk’s back, wrapped suctiony fingers around his shiny little body and stuck his metre-long tongue straight down Qwerk’s ear. Now we know how sensitive Nufonian ears
are. Qwerk, paralysed with pleasure, dropped his Lobot-a-tron. The Sirian briefly extracted his tongue, looked at another Sirian and mouthed the words ‘Wax-o-rama!’ They both laughed so hard at this that Qwerk managed to rouse himself, pick up his weapon and hold the barrel to the first Sirian’s head.
The Babes played on, loud and hard.
‘GULP!’ cried the Sirian.
The Cherubim chose this moment to descend upon Qwerk. Grabbing onto his knobbly fingers with their pudgy fists, they lifted the small grey high in the air above the stage and gave him a good talking to. They told him that they’d seen him pleasuring his uvula several times on the flight over. They told him that they had found the Hidden Agenda. Then they put him down right on top of the roof of the stage. Qwerk, who, for a cosmonaut, was remarkably afraid of heights and could not even contemplate looking down, was so agitated by now that his limbs began to twitch and jerk and spasm. Nothing life-threatening, but it did make for excellent visuals.
Luella Skye-Walker nudged her husband and pointed to Qwerk. ‘Haven’t seen breakdancing in ages.’
‘Definitely time for a revival,’ Aubrey nodded enthusiastically, attempting a shoulder pop, whip and finger curl. He rubbed his neck. ‘Maybe not, however, at my age.’
‘You know, Aubrey, I really wish we’d made contact before the project was wound up,’ Luella sighed. ‘Can you imagine how wild it would be if all these aliens were real?’
Qwerk’s bots and borgs, meanwhile, were taking deep breaths and steeling themselves to venture out into the madness and rescue their leader when Iggy and Revor dashed over and planted themselves at the foot of Pallas’s exit ramp. One glance at Iggy, who wasn’t even trying to look threatening, and even the notorious borgs of 49 Serpentis retreated. They cowered behind the door, palpitating madly within their pink, triangular chests.
And the Babes played on.
Warped drive, I’m a-gettin’ outta here
Warped drive, I’m switching far for near.
I’d like to be on the same planet as you some day
But even when we’re close you’re so far away
So thanks for all the Memocide
It’s been fun, it’s been a ride,
Warped drive, warped drive
I’m a-gettin’ outta here.
Sirians, being vertically challenged, couldn’t see very well at rock concerts. Not quite able to catch what was going on, the Sirian in the ET mask chose this moment to wander onto the stage.
The sight of him spurred the crowd into a veritable frenzy. ‘Call home!’ they screamed. ‘Call home!’ Just then he suddenly noticed what looked like a SWAT team in full battle dress rush the stage from the other side. In fright, he dived off the stage and landed in the mosh, where he was caught and bodysurfed, passed from hand to hand over the top of the crowd, for the rest of the concert.
The Sirian was wrong. It wasn’t a SWAT team at all. It was General Jackal Mikeson’s TWATS team (Troops for Wasting Aliens To Shit), the enforcement arm of CONSPIRASEE. TWATS were far worse than SWATs. The Alphas and other Sirians and Zeta Reticulans, who hadn’t really thought of anything to do yet, now hurled themselves onto the TWATS, hanging upside down off their helmets, sticking suction-cuppy toes onto their faces, trying to tickle them under their flak jackets and farting up their nostrils. The TWATS weren’t the slightest bit flustered by this. This was precisely the sort of situation for which they’d been professionally trained. Suctioning a Sirian off his face, Mikeson signalled for his men to advance on the Babes—who were still madly playing—and then Qwerk.
‘Drama-o-rama!’ shuddered Tristram from the mosh. In his mind, he leapt up onto the stage and took the TWATS on single-handedly, saving the babes and earning the total and undivided attention of Lati, who’d never look at another bean again. Except maybe Torquil, when he allowed it. Torquil was thinking the same thing. Here is a picture of slacker heroism: Tristram, looking deeply concerned, relights a joint and passes it to Torquil. Then they make their way to the front, and tap one of the Sirians on the shoulder.
‘Uh, anything we can do?’ asked Torquil.
‘Cousin!’ cried the Sirian, embracing him.
Doll was the first of the Babes to react to all the confusion. ‘Oh, God,’ she said under her breath as she rolled the drums, ‘help us. Please. Dear God. If we’ve ever needed you, we need you now.’
CK-CK-CK-CK-CRRRRAACK! A great hole gaped in the speaker stack and a gigantic creature with the face of Phil Collins, the hair of Lenny Kravitz, the body of young Elvis, the dress sense of Dave Graney, the smouldering sexuality of The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, the snarl of Johnny Rotten and the biggest fucken three-necked guitar in the entire yoon burst forth. He was trailing coloured streamers and waving a glittering musical staff which He used to lasso the entire division of TWATS.
‘KONG FOO SING!’ He hollered, command-ing them, ‘Make My day. Dance to the music!’ At which point the soldiers turned as one towards the audience, threw their helmets into the air, ripped open their shirts to reveal well-toned chests and, led by Mikeson himself, began gyrating raunchily to the chorus of ‘In the Sexual Experimentation Chamber (Anything Goes, Everything Cums)’.
The fans loved it. They screamed, they laughed, they cheered, they applauded, they pogoed, they moshed, they pashed, they fucked in the aisles. What with the nonstop music, Pallas pulsing on one side, Galgal beaming on the other, what with Qwerk still breakdancing on the roof, the Cherubim cavorting in the air with the lost paraglider and the hovering helicopter, what with the Sirians and Alphas bounding around the stage, ET in the mosh and now this invasion of dancing soldier boys, not to mention the visitation by the ultimate Rock God, blessed be His name, Who was now performing a filthy guitar solo of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, this was undoubtedly the best rock n roll stage show in the past, present and future history of the yoon.
It was so cool, so sick, so full-on, so utterly absorbing and absolutely fabulous that no one even noticed the night sky darkening as an asteroid some twenty-two kilometres in diameter began its approach to Earth.
‘Sorry about the rush’—Baby was now standing at the front of the stage and shouting into the microphone—‘but as you can see, we’re wanted in a few places that we don’t particularly want to be wanted in. The life of a rock n roll alien outlaw is a bit like that. We’ve had a fully megamega time on your planet, it’s been real as, and we love all of you.’
What? Jake felt a sudden wave of panic. What was happening? Had she been serious, when she said that about leaving? And what did she mean, ‘love all of you?’ What about him? What about him?
‘You see,’ she was explaining, ‘if we don’t hightail it out of here sometime around, oh, exactly now, we’re dead alien meat. And if you’ve ever seen dead alien meat, you’ll know it’s not a pretty sight. So we’re off. Don’t know where. Don’t know when we’ll be back. We’re just going to get on that big skyway and keep on truckin’.’
Without him? Hey—where had the twins gone? Was everyone going to desert him now?
‘If you want to come with us,’ Baby offered, ‘listen carefully. This is the drill. When I say rock n roll, visualise yourself in our flying saucer here, and bang your head three times. Alright punters, now—ROCK N ROLL.’ Hair flew, lacunae opened up in the crowd. Where Larry and the other abductees had been standing, for instance, where George had been, and young Zach, and Skye and Saturna, and Ozone, and Ebola, Groovy Gregory and even a prominent government leader, who’d recently stated that the Babes were his favourite band, better than silverchair even, and Jackal Mikeson’s secretary Herman, and Des Blight and Henry the mixer.
Jake tried to visualise himself in the saucer. He saw the scene of his initial abduction, of himself and Baby playing pool at the Sando, of the first day he and Torquil heard the Babes practising, of the first gig, of touring. He saw himself making love to Baby. Mostly, he saw himself making love to Baby. She was the most amazing girl he’d ever met, they’d had top times, and atom
ic sex. It was actually true. He loved her. With all his heart.
Maybe it really was time to, uh, commit. But his skin felt as though it had shrunk a whole size too small for him, his mouth went dry, his palms dampened and his temples throbbed. He desperately needed a joint and a beer. He needed to think this through.
Baby’s antennae had picked Jake out of the crowd. She read his equivocation. A pang rent her heart. ‘Final call,’ she announced, looking straight at him. Won’t you ride with me? He looked away. ‘ROCK N ROLL!’ He was still there. He wasn’t coming. She knew that now. But she also knew, having read his mind, that he did love her. In his own, strange, Earth boy way. And while part of her wished it could be otherwise, that they could be together forever and ever, she was happy. She was, after all, Baby Baby, wild n free, extraterrestrial extraordinaire, number one rock n roll babe from outer space. There’d be other adventures, other planets, other loves, if not in this solar system then in the next, or the next. Jake would always have a place in her heart, but her heart was a pretty big place.
She could see Doll frantically gesturing at her to hurry up. The borgs and bots in Pallas were now revving up the engine, and God, having done His bit, was tapping His feet and looking at His watch. Qwerk, still on the roof, was the only one to notice the approaching Eros, but his screams were absorbed in the general tumult.
‘Thank you very much, Sydney,’ Baby cried. ‘Thank you Australia. Thank you Earth. We’re the Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space. Catch you next time!’ She lifted her guitar into the air and smashed it down on the stage. Lati stomped on her bass and Doll kicked over her drums and tossed the sticks into the mosh, where a thousand hands reached up for them—and lo and behold, the sticks multiplied in the air until there was one for every pair of hands.
As their fans stood and cheered, waving and swaying, Doll revved up Galgal. There wasn’t a moment to spare. The saucer rose upwards on a solid beam of light, which it then sucked back up into itself with a great big slurp. ‘Hold on tight,’ said Doll, throwing the saucer into gear and hanging a u-ee over the stadium with the borg-piloted Pallas in pursuit. Qwerk was still on the roof, gazing with horror upon the fast-plummeting Eros.
