And Another Thing... by Eoin Colfer
Arthur didn’t argue. He didn’t have an argument to present.
Random and Arthur were seated at a bench in John Wayne Square eating home-made ice-cream in the shadow of a John Wayne in his ‘Sean the Boxer’ pose statue.
‘We can settle here. You can live with me, or with Trillian if you like, when she gets back from her honeymoon. Or both of us. Whatever you like. You have options now.’
Random could feel the glow of contentment warming her chest, but she fought it.
‘I don’t know if I should even be eating ice-cream,’ she said. ‘It’s dairy, isn’t it? That’s a bit close to cheese. The Tyromancers might not like it and I should respect their beliefs.’
‘So, all dairy products? That’s going to be difficult. The cows will be devastated.’
Random did not stop eating. ‘I think we need to draw up some sort of list. I mean, I can’t give up milkshakes. I just found them.’
Arthur leaned back, tilting his face towards the sun. ‘I saw Aseed Preflux coming out of a bakery with a four-cheese quiche this morning.’
Random spewed honeycomb vanilla. ‘What? After everything he fought for? That hypocrite!’
‘He said he was just holding it for someone. Wasn’t his, apparently.’
‘He and I are going to have a talk.’
‘Random. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’re a teenager. It might be a few years before you can take over the planet.’
This was a good point, and the ex-Galactic President in Random’s memory acknowledged it, even if the teenager didn’t want to.
‘Maybe not yet, but I’ll get there, believe me.’
‘I do.’
The square was filling up with the lunchtime crowd, groups of ostensibly happy humans, not one making the slightest attempt to kill another.
How long will that last? wondered Arthur. Until someone decides that mushrooms are actually divine and we should stop chopping them into pieces.
Ford appeared on the opposite side of the square and barged through the thrumming crowds, making good use of his sharp elbows. As he drew closer, Arthur recognized the look on his friend’s face.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, hurling his ice-cream to the ground.
‘Daddy!’ said Random, shocked. ‘There’s a recycler just there.’
Arthur was unrepentant. He stood and stamped on the carton.
‘It doesn’t matter because I have a feeling this planet is about to be destroyed. Isn’t that right, Ford?’
Ford arrived huffing. He was a writer and unaccustomed to physical exercise.
Guide Note: The general limit of Ford Prefect’s exertion was hunting for the last clipper-clam in the bucket and yanking it from its shell with clam tweezers. The most exercise Ford had ever done was when he had attained an ultimate supremo rating in the offensive art of Wang Do during a sojourn in the Hunian Hills resort. Unfortunately Hunian Hills is a mind-surfing resort and so Ford had only done this exercise in his head, a fact that became painfully clear when he initiated a bar fight on Jaglan Beta with five journos from the gadget periodical Big Knobs.
‘Get your towel, Arthur. We have to leave.’
Arthur actually stamped a foot. ‘I knew it. Let me guess: the Vogons are early?’
Ford pulled his copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide from his satchel and checked the Sub-Etha imager. ‘Either it’s Vogons, or a very big Toblerone.’
‘This is never going to end, is it?’ Arthur wailed. ‘Those green sadists won’t stop until we are all dead.’
Ford tapped his lower lip. ‘You know, I don’t think they’re after me. Just you human types.’
Random shielded her eyes against the sun. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘They’re up there, all right. The Guide never lies.’
‘That bloody guide lies all the time. It’s more lies than truth.’
Ford spouted the standard line: ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide is a hundred per cent accurate. Reality, however, is not as reliable.’
It seemed to Arthur that he spent a considerable percentage of his waking life listening to his friend waffling on, while one world or another was about to end.
‘Okay, Ford,’ he said urgently. ‘What should we do?’
The question seemed to puzzle the Betelgeusean. ‘Do?’
‘About the Vogons. How do we survive?’
‘Oh. Yes. That’s what I came here to tell you. Did you see me crossing the square? I was all charged up. Didn’t care who I knocked over.’
‘We saw you. Now, what do we do? Can we hitchhike?’
Ford laughed. ‘Are you kidding? The Vogons won’t fall for that again. Even their shields have shields.’
‘So what then?’
‘We need to run, quite quickly, to the spaceport. There might still be time to board the Heart of Gold.’
‘I see something,’ said Random, pointing skywards at what looked like a cluster of shooting stars heading their way, descending in synchronized loops through the atmosphere.
‘Or not,’ said Ford.
He plucked Random’s ice-cream from her fist and licked it slowly, savouring every drop.
The Business End
‘Missile holographs? said Jeltz. ‘What do you think, gunner?’
The gunner was hardly going to argue. ‘Why not, Prostetnic.’
Jeltz seemed almost jolly. ‘Why not indeed. Flying horses would be nice.’
‘Flying horses it is,’ said the gunner and ran the program.
‘Twinkle twinkle,’ burbled Jeltz.
Nano
Thor belched mightily and slapped the crumbs from his tunic. He clicked two fingers and Mjöllnir beeped, jumped from its charger on the wall and sped into his hand.
‘Who are these invaders?’ the god asked Hillman.
‘Vogons, my lord, according to the craft recognition software. Pretty tough buggers. They specialize in planet destruction.’
Zaphod was thrilled. ‘The Vogons are here already! This is going to be great. Epic. You will totally decimate those bastardos.’
Thor did a few practice twirls. ‘Decimate? Are you sure I should, Zaph? I’m telling you now, I will not sit still for more tribunals and we’re still not sure how the immortal bashing will go down on the Sub-Etha.’
Hillman smiled sweetly. ‘No tribunals, my lord. You were simply protecting your planet. It’s in the contract.’
‘Exactly,’ said Zaphod. ‘It’s brilliant PR. Taking out a Vogon bureaucruiser is just the thing to get you all over the major networks. BBS, Orbit, Nova, even Leviathan, though they’re a crowd of partisans. The great religicom love a bully-basher almost as much as they love a martyr.’
Thor did a few pre-flight exercises, working out the kinks. ‘I hope I can put on a bit of a show this time, I think, give the viewers some drama. Be a bit more like Dad. You know… godly. I think I’m actually feeling godly.’
Zaphod clapped him on the thigh. ‘That’s great. It’s us or them though, so maybe you should get a move on.’
Thor froze in mid-hamstring stretch. ‘Get a move on? That sounded like an order, Zaph. Gods don’t take orders from mortals.’
Zaphod was wounded. ‘I would never give you orders, mighty one. I wouldn’t dream of it. What I’m doing is manipulatering you, for your own good.’
Guide Note: The fact that Zaphod Beeblebrox was able to manipulate anyone tells us a lot about the fragile self-esteem of the person being manipulated. Especially since President Beeblebrox had only looked up the word ‘manipulate’ the previous month as part of his self-improvement ‘word a week’ programme. He had obviously not read past the root verb.
Thor chewed the tip of his moustache. ‘Is that…’
‘It’s a good thing, big boy. A positive and respectful thing.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Abso-zarking-lutely.’
‘Very well, mortal. I shall deliver this planet from evil.’
Zaphod punched the air. ‘Did you hear that, Hil
Thor selected the Mus-O-Menu on the hammer’s shaft and scrolled down until he reached ‘Let’s Get Hammered’. Anthemic power chords reverberated through the food hall.
‘Let’s get – You wanna get – Hammered!’ he sang, full-throatedly, then executed a high-speed vertical take-off, punching a star-shaped hole through the carbon-fibre energy-absorbent roof panels.
‘Go!’ Zaphod shouted after his client, wondering if Thor could tell the difference between fifteen and twenty per cent, then wondering if he himself could calculate the difference. Left Brain would have to do it.
Hillman Hunter was thinking about money too.
‘Jaysus, Zaphod. Have a chat with your man there. Those feckin’ panels are expensive. Could he not go out the door, the perfectly good door, and do the whole hammered rigmarole outside without causing any property damage?’
Zaphod tilted his single head. ‘Come on, Hillman. He’s a god. Gods do things big. Makes for a better story in the holy book when someone gets around to writing it.’
‘Now there’s a volume that would shift a few units,’ said Hillman thoughtfully.
Zaphod draped an arm around the Irishman’s shoulders. ‘I can give you exclusive rights.’
Hillman hugged the contract close to his chest. ‘You already did, bucko,’ he said.
Thor felt the wind in his hair and the bugs in his teeth.
‘Visor,’ he said, and a small blue force field crackled down from the brim of his helmet.
This sort of thing was what being a god was all about: the defying gravity, the hair, the big muscly legs. All good god stuff. This was what Thor thrived on. Flying and bashing, basically.
I like to be loved too, he thought, but he did not voice this notion.
Once upon a time, a god could straddle a mountain top and roar out any old rubbish, and the mortals below would interpret the distorted echoes as omniscience-based super wisdom. One of Odin’s favourite stories in the long hall was the time he’d abducted a mortal’s wife and piled insult on top of injury by shouting at the unfortunate man, with characteristic crudeness, that he could go screw himself.
Imagine my surprise, Odin would say in that holier than thou Olympus drawl that he liked to affect, when on my next visit I find a temple on that very spot with the inscription ‘Go Through Thineself’. Apparently it’s the path to wisdom and contentment.
And of course everyone would crack up, except Frigga who was not big on her husband bragging about his infidelities.
But these days there were recording devices everywhere. Whatever a god said was reported around the Universe verbatim. There was no more benefit of the doubt, because there was no doubt. If a god said arse, then everyone heard arse and probably with the background noise taken out. And if a god said I don’t know then everyone heard that too. Loki, who liked to sneak out of Asgard for a few tankards with the mortals on a weekend, had handed the Adiaphorists a gift-wrapped basket of mill grist when he had spent an entire drunken evening loudly complaining of his erectile dysfunction problems. Or, as he delicately put it, ‘My lightning rod has lost its lightning. Matter of fact, it’s lost its rod too.’
After this, the gods who were more brain than brawn were advised to keep their mouths shut and their hammers swinging when they were abroad in the Universe, because a pulverized asteroid says more than words can ever say.
And when I crush these Vogon guys, thought Thor, that’s going to be a picture that no fancypants talkie person will be able to spin into a bad thing.
Then Thor had another thought: Unless someone, somewhere, actually likes Vogons.
Before he could consider the ramifications of this and their possible effects on his celebrity rating, the first cluster of missiles was upon him and they looked a lot like horses.
The Business End
Constant Mown was falling to pieces, but not so as you’d notice. On the outside he was huffing and drooling just as much as the rest of the crew.
‘God status?’ demanded Jeltz.
‘What?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘What, sir?’
Jeltz’s eyelids fluttered, as did the loose flaps of flesh between his nostrils. ‘What is the status of the god?’
Mown forced his eyes to stop googling in their sockets and focus on the readouts in front of him.
‘Rising, fast. Coming up to meet us, Prostetnic.’
‘Excellent. Finally a legitimate chance to roll out the QUEST.’
Generally Mown loved a good acronym, but today every letter may as well be D for desperation. Also death, and more than likely damnation.
‘Go on, son. I know you’re dying to know.’
‘I’d like to know!’ said the gunner brightly.
‘QUEST stands for Quite Unwieldy Experimental Sublimation Torpedo.’
Mown did not think that having the word ‘experimental’ in a weapon’s name was very encouraging.
Mown managed to fish an idea from the mire of his despair.
They were about to kill a god. A god.
‘Prostetnic, sir. Don’t we have to issue a verbal declaration of intent?’
‘The Earthlings have had their declaration. Just because these stragglers weren’t around to hear it doesn’t mean I have to waste valuable Vog seconds issuing it again.’
‘But the immortal, sir. The special directive on Extraordinary Encounters states that communication should be attempted before firing upon an immortal.’
Jeltz was pleased with the challenge. You had to trounce these young pups when they threw down the by-the-book gauntlet.
That is what they will call me, he realized and felt instantly lighter. By-the-Book Jeltz. Perfect.
‘But this god is an aggressor,’ he declared. ‘Which negates the special directive.’
Inside, Mown quailed, but he forced himself to nod appreciatively.
‘Of course. Well spotted, Prostetnic.’
‘Well challenged, Constant,’ acknowledged Jeltz graciously, and then, over his shoulder, ‘Gunner, plot me a solution for the QUEST.’
‘It might be difficult, sir,’ admitted the gunner. ‘I don’t know what this being is made of, but the laser slides right off him.’
Jeltz shifted in his chair. ‘No, no. Target the Earthlings. Let’s see how much this god loves his people.’
Smart, thought Mown miserably. Very smart.
Thor was having the time of his life. The horse missiles thundered towards the planet’s surface in tight bunches, with horsy sound effects and everything.
Thor whinnied aloud, then thought Zark, satellite cameras and clamped his mouth shut.
Harrrummphhh, he thought, feeling a little subversive.
He switched tracks from ‘Let’s Get Hammered’ to the classic instrumental piece ‘Gathering of the Vindleswoshen’, broadcasting to every network within Mjöllnir’s range. Thor had always liked the ‘Vindleswoshen’ for battle scenarios, though lately its effect had been diluted somewhat when a carbonated drinks company had used it as backing music for their ‘guy sun-surfing while drinking a pouch of Bipzo Blaster while seducing a gaggle of groupies’ advert.
A lot of the younger gods liked to use targeting software when they were facing down a bunch of missiles, just let the computer do all the work for them. But Thor liked to conduct his business the old-fashioned way.
Nothing makes an impression on mortals like a bit of muscle and sinew, Odin liked to say. Break all you can break.
Listening to Odin speechifying could be about as much fun as a sword in the shank, but occasionally he came up with a worthy desideratum.
Break all you can break, thought Thor and swung Mjöllnir in a wide arc, peeling off to starboard and hitting the first bunch of missiles from below.
Wow. Those are some good holograms.
The horses thundered towards the surface of Nano, tossing their heads and even kicking up dust. Inside their transparent hides the
Thor went among them with incalescent eagerness, smashing their guidance systems with his bare fingers, delivering one massive recumbentibus after another, making shards of the casings. The torpedoes were shifting at massive speeds, but for the Asgardian they may as well have been sugar pears hanging from the sky on straw twine. He zipped among them, trademark thunderclap booming in his wake, excising detonators with sharp chops of his free hand. The horses froze, flickered, then dissipated, their pixels falling apart like electronic snowflakes.
Thor heard the fizzle of a detonation inside one warhead and he stuffed it into his belly, absorbing the nuclear blast, feeding his mitochondria, growing larger. From the ground it seemed as though Thor had swallowed the sun. The entire planet juddered and crepuscular rays flashed from between the god’s square teeth.
Nano
Hillman was impressed. ‘Now that’s a feckin’ god. None of your “dead but dreaming” shite with this fella.’
Zaphod was beginning to think he’d sold Thor a little cheap. ‘I think we should talk about some sort of bonus system. I mean, come on, Hillers, those are big torpedoes.’
Hillman didn’t even look at him. ‘One: don’t call me Hillers. My Na– grandmother used to call me Hillers and you and a thousand like you wouldn’t be fit to dip a soldier in her boiled egg. And two: bonus me arse.’
The Business End
Jeltz held one finger aloft, holding the crew enthralled, mesmerizing them.
I could break Daddy’s finger, thought Mown with suicidal desperation. Then stuff something in his mouth, one of my legs maybe. How then could he give the order?
Daddy would chew off my leg, he realized. Then write the order on the screen in blood.
The finger wavered to a collective rattled intake of breath.
Down went the digit. The order was given.
‘Kill that god,’ said Jeltz phlegmatically.
Now Mown’s finger went up, pointing at the for’ard camera display.
‘I think that’s Thor, sir. The Thor. Are you sure you want to…’