Channel Blue (15 page)

The pig, it turned out, had escaped from a farm just outside the capital, where the owner’s son had dressed it in his pyjamas. When the boar ran onto the capitol grounds, it was automatically picked up by a surveillance camera. A security guard was so distracted by watching it on one of his monitors that he’d accidentally switched the feed onto the big screens surrounding the capitol.

Thanks to this pig, our leaders recognised the importance of entertainment to our empire’s security and well-being. Thanks to this pig, the events that nearly destroyed Eden, the Great Stultification, have never repeated themselves. Thanks to this pig, the human race was saved from self-destruction.

The pig’s name... was Adam.

By the time Amanda came to the end of her recitation, the hologram had vanished. She stared wistfully at the spot it had just occupied. This is our calling, she thought. This is why we do what we do. Without entertainment, there would be nothing but chaos and death.

‘Contemplating your sudden downfall?’ Nick Pythagorus, an unpleasant grin on his face, had managed to slip into the office without her noticing, which was not that surprising given his height of four feet. ‘Actually, I’m surprised to find you here. I thought you might still be gallivanting with your Earthle boyfriend.’

Amanda blushed. At first she wasn’t sure what was happening – she thought it might be a delayed head rush from the MORE pill.

Nick chortled. ‘Oh my heavens, you’re
blushing
,’ he said. ‘Look.’ He picked up the silver nameplate from Amanda’s desk and held it so she could see her reflection. ‘What’s next? Will you be sprouting body hair?’

Irritated, Amanda grabbed the nameplate and slammed it back on her desk.

‘And aggression,’ Nick said in wonderment. ‘You are really doing your genetic programmers proud today, Mandy.’

‘What do you want, shrimp?’ Amanda said, angrily biting off each word. She knew she was playing right into the boy executive’s hands, but it still felt good.

Nick’s expression became grave. ‘You know what you did, right? By letting the Earthle go, you ruined a great sequence in my finale.’

‘
Flight 240
was derivative, gratuitous and random,’ Amanda snapped back. ‘I also believe it broke laws prohibiting the direct endangerment of on-air talent.’

‘They were all volunteers,’ Nick said. ‘But I’m not here to parse issues of extra-planetary entertainment law. The good news is that the rest of the finale is on track. And to make sure it stays that way, you’re confined to station. You can finish packing up your things and that’s it.’

Amanda inhaled deeply to avoid screaming. ‘You have no right to do that. I’m not your prisoner.’

‘No,’ Nick said, ‘but you’ll soon be one nonetheless. For all your violations of the Producers’ Code, I would expect a minimum of two years on a suitably miserable asteroid. But that’s for a board of enquiry to decide. In the meantime, my job is to keep you from wrecking what’s left of the production.’ Nick waved his hand and a pair of copbots entered.

The short one touched the bill of his cap. ‘Afternoon, Ms Mundo.’ The tall one merely glared.

Amanda stood. ‘I will not be guarded like an animal.’

‘I’m sorry, Amanda. The President agrees with me.’ Nick was using his quiet voice now, the one that sounded like he really cared. ‘We think you may be suffering from a case of Satanism.’

Amanda stared at him, incredulous. This was one of the most serious accusations that could be levelled against a producer. Satanism was a mental disorder named after Leslie Satan, a former Galaxy Entertainment executive. Over a century earlier, Leslie Satan was the producer of a small planetainment in the Crab Nebula when the executive in charge of the production, attempting to increase the planet’s low ratings, gave him the note to introduce nuclear weapons to the planet’s residents. Leslie Satan refused to do so, arguing that nuclear weapons in the hands of the planet’s short-sighted rulers would quickly bring about its end. Satan was over-ruled and sure enough, the planet quickly destroyed itself (while, it should be noted, winning its time slot for the very first time).

Leslie Satan subsequently quit Galaxy Entertainment and founded CREEP, the Committee to Re-Evaluate Entertainment Policies, which for years sought to increase government regulation of what Satan labelled ‘the exploitation of lesser life forms for the benefit of the entertainment-industrial complex’. Failing to do this, Satan took his committee underground, where it became known as The Movement, a scourge to productions all around the galaxy. Not only had The Movement blown up satellite cameras and bombed relay stations, but Movement agents, who were often disgruntled former employees of the entertainment industry, had insinuated themselves into planet populations to subvert the intentions of Edenite producers. It was widely know that such agents had been active on Earth, introducing, among other things, antibiotics, civil rights, solar power and meditation. Satan himself, adopting heavy disguise, had made memorable cameos as advisers to Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr, preaching non-violence to the Earthles before Galaxy could detect his presence and chase him back into space.

Now 195 years old, Leslie Satan continued to elude capture by the Edenite government and to fight what he called ‘entertainment colonialism’ from the deck of a ramshackle spaceship that cruised the galaxy, usually scant light years ahead of his pursuers. His latest polemics were even crazier than his earlier rants – in speeches passed around the galaxy via pirate channels and sub-space frequencies, he’d stunned even his followers by suggested that products of fornication should not be considered lesser life forms. He’d announced a ‘POF revolution’ and predicted that one day, a POF would appear who would unite his genetically random brethren into an army that would end POF subjugation and conquer the galaxy.

As a result, to be accused of Satanism was akin to being accused of insanity. Amanda saw Nick’s game for the power play it was.

‘I am perfectly well,’ she said. ‘You know I am. I’ve always thought ending Channel Blue was a bad idea, and it still is. Just because I disagree with you doesn’t mean I’m sick.’

‘Just admit you lost this one.’

‘Are you going to have the bots make me do that, too?’

‘Stubborn,’ Nick said. ‘I’m learning a lot about you today.’

‘Get out.’ Amanda picked up the nameplate and threw it. The tall bot’s arm shot out and intercepted it inches from Nick’s head. Nick calmly took it from the guard and set it back on Amanda’s desk.

‘You’d better hang onto this,’ he said. ‘In a couple of months, you’re going to need it to remind yourself of who you were.’

CHANNEL 15

THE MIGHTY PEN

Perry stepped out of a taxi in front of his apartment, carrying two large shopping bags. One contained two tubs of ice cream, a box of chocolate, a package of chocolate-chip cookies, two takeaway bacon cheeseburgers and an order of fries packed into white bags with the grease already seeping through them, a carton of Camels and a large bottle of a very smooth, very expensive single malt Scotch. If the world was ending, Perry reasoned, he was going do everything possible to enjoy it.

The other bag contained a new Mossburg 500 pump-action shotgun and two boxes of shells.

After climbing the steps to his front door, he realised that he’d lost his keys, probably while stripping naked for the robots on the moon. He unceremoniously lifted a potted plant, smashed his kitchen window and climbed in.

Perry turned on the TV, opened the single malt and lit a Camel. He was sweaty, dirty and exhausted – he hadn’t slept in nearly two days – but right now sleep seemed out of the question. What if the world ended while he was in bed?

Going through the pockets of his blue tracksuit, he found the little purple MORE pill Amanda had given him on the moon.
What the hell?
he thought and knocked it back with a gulp of whisky. He crossed his legs and groaned as the most amazing orgasm he’d ever experienced rippled through his entire body. He sat gasping in the aftermath, wondering how this could be. There was no trace of moisture in his pants, and he hadn’t even had time to become erect. He uncrossed his legs and it happened again, even stronger, a sliding, rippling earthquake of ecstasy rolling outward from his crotch to his scalp and toes. He gasped for breath like a fish on a dock. This was too much.

He sat back in the chair and came; he hunched forward and came again. He sucked in air, hyperventilating.

Dear God
, he thought,
this pill’s going to kill me
.

Moving very, very slowly, as if his body were composed of nitroglycerine, he stood. This seemed to keep the orgasms at bay. It was also helpful that the local afternoon news had started. If there were such a thing as an anti-orgasm, it would be brought on by watching the local news.

Today’s leading stories were the usual litany of murders, natural disasters and pandemics that you might not associate with the end of the world had you not spent the last twelve hours trying to postpone it. Sandwiched amidst these dire reports was news that Flight 240 out of the Los Angeles International Airport had been cancelled due to ‘unspecified concerns’. The correspondent standing by live at the airport wasn’t able to talk to any of the passengers, who were being taken to ‘an undisclosed location to be reunited with their families’.

Perry watched the TV as familiar faces from the Green Room were herded onto a bus. He was about to turn it off when the anchorman said, ‘And finally, the general assembly of the United Nations was disrupted today when the Iranian delegate complained about a pen. Yes, you heard me correctly: A pen.’ The anchorman smirked. ‘We haven’t seen the offending implement yet, but apparently it was enough to vanquish world peace for at least a day. Tomorrow? My bet’s on buttons.’

The two anchormen then kidded each other while holding up their pens: ‘Come on, Joe, you’re really cheesing me off with that thing.’ Perry watched this, his face ashen.
They’ve sent out the pens
, he thought.
How long did the receptionist say it would take the world to end from here? Three weeks?

The Earth was on the brink of extinction and no one could even see it. Perry pulled out the new shotgun and the box of shells. He crouched down too quickly and experienced another incapacitating orgasm. Steadying himself against the couch, he stood deliberately, lifted the shotgun and opened the chamber. While thanking God for the permissive gun laws that he had thought for years to be a national tragedy, he slid the shells into the empty chamber, the way the clerk at the K-Mart had shown him. He knew it would be a doomed mission, but he figured he could maybe cause enough damage to the control room of Galaxy Entertainment to slow down production. A shell slipped out of his grasp and clattered to the floor. Bending down – slowly – to scoop it up, he paused. He had the feeling of being watched. He now realised that he’d had it ever since he entered his apartment. Then he heard a sound, a buzzing. He followed it to his left, just in time to see an insect land on top of the TV.

A fly.

Perry tiptoed until he was standing directly over it. The insect pivoted towards him. He was now close enough to see a glint of metallic blue on its abdomen. With a rapid motion, he cupped his hand and slammed it down. Did he get it? Yes – he felt it crawling up onto his palm. He quickly folded his fingers into a loose fist.

‘Enjoying the show?’ he asked the trapped fly. ‘How about this?’ He raised his hand, intending to smash it against the wall. Then he had a better idea. He walked into the kitchen and found an empty peanut-butter jar in the recycling bin. He released the fly inside the jar, screwed on the lid, and set it on top of the TV. He squatted down until he was eye-level with the fly.

‘Amanda,’ he whispered. ‘Amanda, are you watching?’ The fly sat on the bottom of the jar, motionless. ‘If you’re watching, do something. Fly in a circle.’ The fly continued to stare at him, inscrutable.

Perry inhaled. ‘OK. I have something to say to you, whoever’s watching,’ he said. What now? Perry’s mouth was dry. He needed another idea to save the Earth, but following through on a project had never been his strong suit. Unfortunately, there was no other project to go on to. This was it. He forced his mouth to talk.  ‘You think we’re all selfish, aggressive idiots on this planet. You think we don’t deserve to live. But you’re wrong.’

Perry felt acutely aware of how lame this sounded. This was why he was a writer and not an improviser. He wished he had a few minutes to write something down. But if anyone was watching, who knew how long they would continue watching?

‘The people of Earth are basically decent people. If you don’t know this, it’s because you’re only being shown the Steve Santiagos of this world. You haven’t had a chance to see anyone be a decent human being. Well, now you are.’ Perry hesitated. He surveyed his apartment and spied his wallet, which he’d set on top of a bookcase. He picked it up and removed his ATM card, brandishing it at the fly. ‘Right now, I am going to remove all my money from my bank account and give it to the poor.’

The fly seemed to take this in. But, in fact, the fly was only thinking about how to get out of the jar. This was because the fly was just a fly, and not a camera for Channel Blue. However, one of Channel Blue’s satellite cameras did happen to be passing over Perry’s house at that moment, and the image of an Earthle conversing with a common housefly was deemed bizarre enough to set off an alert from an automated screener at a relay station. This machine’s job was to sort through the millions of video feeds radiating from Earth and narrow them down to the half per cent that might qualify for entertaining viewing on Channel Blue. After noting the Earthle–fly interaction, the machine communicated with the satellite, which fixed all its lenses on Perry’s house and summoned camera flies in the vicinity of Perry’s apartment complex. They entered through the broken kitchen window and flew to the best vantage points for viewing Perry. The machine then alerted a technician at the Ventura Boulevard control room. While Perry left his house and walked to his car, this technician pulled in the various feeds and watched as Perry took the jar with the fly in it, buckled it into the passenger seat of his car, drove to the closest branch of his bank, withdrew $478 from the ATM (the entire contents of his checking account after his end-of-the-world spending spree) and made his way to a poor neighbourhood on the other side of Ventura Boulevard, where small crumbling stucco houses nestled like embarrassed hobos behind overgrown front yards.