Author
Jon Henn

CHAPTER 2

THE V-LAN HOME WORLD

I wish that obnoxious punk Producer would have a heart attack and die, the Director thought as he waited in the studio green room, 87,000 light years away from Earth. He hated show days, and the one today especially.
     The production staff was also with him, lingering for the ratings to come in on the new show. No one was sure if it would be a success or would end up a complete flop and a major embarrassment. Anxious and fidgeting, they would soon find out.
     The Director stiffly reclined in an anti-gravity lounge chair, his body horizontal to the floor. Humanoid, yet fishlike, he had a thin scaly body, three jointed arms, webbed hands, and round glassy eyes. His cheekbones stretched back into finny ears. His long lips puckered and relaxed as he sipped a cocktail from a large wide glass with a tiny crab inside it scuttling away from the end of the straw.
     How dare he ruin my project by chopping it up in post production, the Director thought. Drinking deeply from his cocktail, the tiny crab got drawn inside the straw. Its crusty legs clung to the straw's exterior in a futile effort to survive before it was inevitably sucked up.
     I’m a class 6 intellect; he‘s only a class 5. I’ve made over 600 shows. He’s fresh out of film school. Studio nepotism really irks me.
     Crunching the crab between his teeth, the Director kept his disgruntled thoughts to himself. He would never overtly state his displeasure for that would brand him as egotistical, something he would have never tolerated about himself, even if it had not been a capital crime on his planet.
     Four squat, green skinned cameramen sat at a star-fish shaped table playing computer games on portable consoles. Each cameraman had four arms, four legs and four eyes which bobbed on the ends of eye stalks on their foreheads. Despite only being class three intelligences, they played four different games at once while sitting on a pair of stools, one for each pair of their four buttocks. Sexless creatures grown in clone vats their legal name was cameraman, although when their superiors were angry they would often call them by their more common name--its.
     Their secret names between them were Iggy, Ziggy, Wank and Glop.
     The Production Manager played six dimensional chess against a computer opponent. A class four intelligence, he was smaller than the Director with a bulbous squid-shaped head that sat on his shoulders without a visible neck. The precisely groomed hair on top of his head was shaped like a mushroom; his mouth hung down over his chest. Genetically bred for his organizational skills, the Production Manager glanced up at the chronometer.
     “Show’s over," the Production Manager said. “We should know the results any moment.” He moved a chess piece to another level while, on a wrist monitor, he studied the computer’s programming as it responded to his latest move.
     The opaque, force field door vanished. A hover monitor with a round, 360 degree screen floated into the room. The number 32 in a large font moved around the screen’s circumference. The name of the show, Planet Earth, Episode 187, Cold Calamity, appeared in a smaller font below it.
     Strutting into the room, the priggish sharkish Producer gnashed his teeth together, making angry, growling sounds. In front of his snout, he held a wiggling trout stuck on a stick coated in steaming hot mustard.
     The Production Manager cut the power to the cameramen’s games. Unable to play, the disgruntled its folded their four hands on top of each other and pretended to pay attention to their superiors.
     “A 32 point market share in a prime time slot,” the Producer said in a nasally voice. “Adequate, but not superbulous.” He wagged his fingers at the Director, each finger sporting a flashy ring. “I am disappointed. I know you can do much better.”
     Glowering at the Director, he savagely bit off the head of his trout stick with his pearly white, jagged teeth that contained several small diamonds in them. The trout ceased to wiggle; its body slumped in death; hot mustard dripped on the floor.
     The diamonds sparkled once he licked them clean.
     Not amused by the threatening gesture, the Director imagined the Producer as the victim in every violent death scene he had ever filmed, in particular those with beheadings.
     “The story line was weak,” the Producer said, exhaling hot mustard fumes out of his nostrils. “Next time come up with something not so choppy.”
     The Director’s temper rose to the boiling point. He bit his tongue. The pain kept him from lashing out. You twinkle toothed ignoramus. I’ll show you who the genius is here.
     Grasping the crabless cocktail, he adjusted the anti grav chair’s height so that he was level with the Producer’s chest. Extending his audio receptors, he prepared to toss his drink in the Producer’s face so the alcohol would sting his eyes.
     If I made it look like an accident … like in the movie “The Hunt For Red October” when Sean Connery kills the KGB agent. I blind him with my drink, he slips on the floor, then ‘oops’ his neck gets broken with the help of my forceful arms shoving his head on the end of the table.
     The Director grasped the chair’s controls, preparing to launch his drink attack, when something poked him hard in the leg. The Production Manager wiggled an ear in warning, then moved his Bishop from level 1 to level 3, putting the computer opponent in check.
     The Director took the hint. His audio receptors retracted.
     Very well, thought the Director. I’ll fix you, Mr. ‘I’m-the-boss’ Producer. Before I’m through with you, you’ll wish you’d been born an “it” in a clone vat.
     The Producer ripped another bite from his fish stick and continued. “Go back to Earth and make a new story. I’ve arranged for you to use the latest cyborg camera technology. Make me something fresh.” He tossed some ruby gemstones onto the table. “Here are your passes. You’re scheduled to lift off tomorrow morning.”
     The cameramen greedily pressed the gems into their earlobes. The thought of using new technology always made them eager to shoot a new show.
     “Be sure to be more creative this time,” the Producer said, digging a piece of fish gristle out of his jagged teeth. “And don’t forget, we’re on a budget. Be cost efficient.” He swallowed the gristle, smacking his lips. “Have a profitable trip. Don’t fail me if you want to keep your job.” He took a deep breath. “Just kidding … not really.”
     The Director’s skin turned an angry purple.
     The Production Manager prayed he didn’t attack the Producer and get them all executed as accomplices to murder.
     As the Producer strode towards the doorway, he tossed the bones of the fish stick into the trash incinerator. The food flared with a burst of heat as it was reduced to ashes. Passing through the force field door, his growling noises vanished as the door resumed its former opaqueness.
     The Director sat and fumed. While he plotted out his vengeance, the Cameramen rigged hidden batteries on their persons to their portable consoles. Being careful not to attract attention, they resumed playing their computer games with hidden zeal.
     The Production Manager held a flagon of Metamucil mixed in prune juice in front of the Director. It was something he discovered on Earth that relieved his superior’s mental constipation. He called it “the brain plunger.” Under the circumstances, he made it extra strong.
     Smelling the prune juice, the Director’s stomach gurgled. Taking it in his webbed hand, he took several long, gluttonous swallows.
     The Production Manager played chess for a few more minutes, letting the concoction kick in. “So what genre do you want to do?” he muttered nonchalantly.
     Slumped in the anti-grav chair, the Director licked his lips. His mind was relaxed; he had a nice buzz; it always helped his creative thinking. “Let’s do a murder mystery,” the Director said. “Something with violence, fear, and an abundance of blood and death.”
     “A love story?” said the Production Manager.
     “Of course,” the Director nodded as the brain plunger sedated him. “As long as it’s weal love, not some mind-controlled imbitation,” he said, slurring his words as the drink kicked in. “It weads to blad acting. I have a webutation to ub-hold.”
     The Director tilted the anti-gravity chair to a standing position and stood up. His legs wobbled when he tried to walk. “I need a nab. We’ll talk aboud it ober dinner.”
     Interlacing his fingers, the Director stretched his hands out. Cracking his knuckles loudly, he stumbled out the door.
     Two hundred years with the same director, the Production Manager thought. I am most fortunate his former Production Manager was crushed by a rock slide on Alpha Centauri Prime under suspicious circumstances. Good production jobs are hard to find. I shall deserve my position by continuing to serve him faithfully.
     He made his last chess move, defeating the computer opponent, then used his wrist device to shut down the cameramens’ consoles with an Electro-Magnetic Pulse beam.
     Unable to play their computer games, the cameraman protested like little boys.
     “All right you its,” the Production Manager said, rising up on his snake-like tails that he slithered on like legs. “You heard the boss. Stop your whining, get off your butts and load up the ship. We leave for Earth in the morning.”