‘Kill that god,’ repeated Prostetnic Jeltz, grinding out the words.
The gunner span a ratchet three times, then honked down a voice tube. ‘QUEST away. God will soon be dead, sir,’ he said.
Nano
Ford Prefect had managed to hack on to several Galact-O-Map Sub-Etha sites and was watching the big blow-up from a dozen angles on his Hitchhiker’s Guide screen.
‘My bookie is giving me ten to one on the Vogons,’ he told Arthur. ‘I’m putting a few thousand on old Red Beard.’ He shrugged. ‘I might as well. If I win, I win big. If I lose, then none of you will be around to listen to me moaning.’
‘You don’t have a bomb-proof towel, I suppose?’ said Arthur.
‘Sure, I have a bomb-proof towel and a matter-converting pillow case.’
Arthur actually smiled. ‘Hey, sarcasm. Well done, mate, you’re learning.’
Something on Ford’s Guide pulled him out of the conversation. He pinched a section of screen and expanded it.
‘What the zark is that?’
Arthur shouldered in for a look. ‘Another horse?’
‘No. No holograms for this beauty. Look at the size of that torpedo. I’ve seen smaller asteroids.’
Arthur attempted to pull together the folds of a dressing gown that he wasn’t wearing.
‘Thor will swallow it though, won’t he? He’s a god. No problem, right?’
‘It’s not headed for Thor, Arthur.’
‘Let me guess.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘Righto. Do you still have that joystick?’
Nano’s Upper Atmosphere
Truth be told, Thor was showing off a little in the twilight: throwing pirouettes into the routine, freefalling through the gauze of noctilucent clouds, exposing plenty of bronzed thigh for all the ladies watching. To ensure maximum dramatic effect, he smote the torpedoes in time to ‘Gathering of the Vindleswoshen’.
This is too easy, he realized. Much more of this and the viewing figures will dip.
Then his immortal tympanum detected a different engine whine. The low chug of a small jet pushing a big load. These Vogons were trying to slip something past him.
Thor dispatched the final horse/torpedo with a perfunctory hammer swipe then cast his gaze about the darkening sky. His God-O-Vision spotted an edged glint swooping in a pot-bellied curve towards the city of mortals below.
Those bastards are going after my pay cheque.
Up to this point, Thor judged that he had been pretty benevolent towards these bureaucratic invaders. Okay, he had shredded their hardware, but no one was floating in space sucking down lungfuls of vacuum. Well, after he’d clobbered this sneaky new bomb with considerable sangfroid, perhaps he would send Mjöllnir to punch a few holes in the Vogon hull.
Thor folded his arms across his chest and dropped through the aurora of Nano’s ionosphere like a rocket-charged stone through high g. While he could not actually be in two places at one time, Thor could most certainly move from one spot to another faster than almost any other being in the Universe.
Guide Note (brief so as not to ruin the flow): Thor was actually the fifth fastest being in the Universe. Eighth without Mjöllnir to steady him. Number one was Hermes who mainly used his divine speed to pinch Ares’s nipples and then run away.
Thor felt the frictional reaction with the air molecules curl the tips of his beard hair. He was going about ninety-five per cent flat out. There was a little more in the tank, but at those speeds there wasn’t a camera in the Universe that could capture his image.
The new torpedo curled in below him, a massive chunky series of rough cylinders with one small jet doing all the pushing. Thor sniffed but he did not recognize what kind of explosive he was dealing with. The smell reminded him a little of the stink from his own clothes after a night spent boozing past a black hole’s event horizon, but not quite the same.
What is this thing?
It didn’t matter. Even if there wasn’t a single bead of explosive inside, the impact crater alone would be far bigger than the city and the shock metamorphism would liquefy a good section of the continent. So if any mortals did survive the explosion, they would only live long enough to be engulfed by lava.
Thor touched down on the torpedo’s fuselage and clambered along the shaft towards the nose cone. There was no urgency now as he had several seconds before impact, an eternity of time for a god of his abilities.
Should I toss the payload into space, he asked himself, leaning into the wind. Or should I nudge the entire thing off course into the ocean? What would look best on camera?
Thor sucked on the tip of his moustache as he remembered something Zaphod had said.
I wonder…
The Business End
‘Detonate the QUEST,’ ordered Jeltz.
‘Yes, Prostetnic,’ said the gunner.
Forgive us, Mown broadcast to the Universe. We are Vogon.
Nano
By now the mammoth torpedo was clearly visible to the naked eye, swooping relentlessly towards Innisfree, laboured jet stream sputtering behind like Morse code.
‘Dot dash, dot dash dot,’ said Ford. ‘I think the whole thing reads: “Arthur Philip Dent is a jerk and complete arsehole.” ’
Arthur was too tired for his irritation to have much force. ‘Is this the time for jokes, Ford? Is it really?’
It seemed as though the entire population of Nano was crowded into John Wayne Square. All colours and creeds united, either by something that could be called the human soul or their paddle-less state in the creek of shite they were currently mired in.
Random sidled up to her father and linked his arm. ‘This planet could have had a future,’ she said. ‘I was going to represent the people.’
Arthur squinted at the huge column of destruction thrumming their way.
‘Your mother is going to kill me,’ he sighed, then lifted his eyes as a collective ‘oooooh’ rose from the crowd.
Now that’s something you don’t see every day, he thought, resorting to clichés in his amazement.
Thor was walking along the giant rocket. Underneath it.
Random put her head on his shoulder, for the first and possibly last time. ‘Are we saved, Daddy? How many times can one group of people be saved? Surely the Universe doesn’t have many more chances for the Dents?’
Ford squeezed between them. ‘One more, at least. So far as I know, nothing can kill a god.’
Then the QUEST exploded. Sort of.
This was not a conventional explosion, in the sense that if one was expecting the traditional blast, bang, kaboom favoured by movie directors and RPG writers the Universe over, then one would feel slightly cheated. There was no blast wave, no flame, no flying debris, just a loud whoomph and the ballooning of a perfect cuboid of green material. The material crackled and flexed, picked up a little cartoon interference from a local satellite network for a few seconds, then split into sixteen small cubes.
Ford said what most people were thinking: ‘Those cubes are pretty small. A lot smaller than Thor.’
The cubes popped one by one in rapid sequence, and what debris was inside them rained to the earth as grey ash. Thor was gone.
‘I’ve got that joystick here somewhere,’ said Ford, rummaging in his satchel. ‘And a couple of sea-dragon eggs. May as well go out singing.’
Something twinkled in the sky over Zaphod’s head.
‘Look! Do you see that?’
Hillman did not answer, as he had decided he was not talking to Zaphod feckin’ Beeblebrox.
Zaphod was off running across the city centre parking zone.
‘Souvenir!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Souvenir!’
Zaphod placed himself under the falling object, jigging about for position.
Could I? he wondered. Is it possible?
‘Camera!’ he screamed, just in case. ‘Somebody get this.’
Of course, I could very well be killed.
But if he survived, how many votes would the v
ideo clip be worth? How many subscriptions to his Sub-Etha site?
The object did not fall as a normal object would.
Of course it doesn’t, thought Zaphod. Because it is a divine talisman made from godly stuff, mined from the places that you get metal in Asgard.
It floated and bloated, flipped and skipped. Chose a size, then changed its mind.
Zaphod stuffed his hands in his pocket so he wouldn’t be tempted to use them. This was a strictly hands-free trick.
Down it came, erratically, Zaphod dancing around on his heel-less boots, matching its jinks, then finally, incredibly, Thor’s helmet landed square on Zaphod Beeblebrox’s head, shrinking to fit snugly.
‘Yes!’ hooted Zaphod, punching the air. ‘Did you see that, Hillers? Did you bloody see that! And I had two heads until recently, so that took even more skillage than you would think… it would take. Tell me I am not special! Tell me!’
Hillman broke his vow of Coventry to call across the car park. ‘I told you not to call me Hillers, you gobshite. And as for special, there was nothing very special about that god you sold me.’
Zaphod was suddenly serious. ‘I will not hear a word against Thor,’ he said. ‘He died to save you.’
Hillman jerked a thumb at the Vogon bureaucruiser hovering above the city.
‘He didn’t do a great job of it then, did he?’
The Business End
Prostetnic Jeltz’s armpits were moist with delight. He was unfamiliar with the emotion, and for a moment wondered if the ship had somehow slipped back into hyperspace. But no, the world outside their window was in focus and ready for destruction.
‘Order a dozen more of those torpedoes!’ he called to no one in particular.
The Earthlings did not seem to have any artillery of their own and were defenceless now that their god had been dispatched to the afterlife. Jeltz chewed on the fat flesh of his lower lip. If gods already lived in heaven, then where did they go when they died? Were the gods autolatrous narcissists? Or did they perhaps worship their own über-gods and move on to a higher level of heaven after their deaths?
I have created a brand new conundrum, he thought, and the idea pleased him greatly.
‘What do you think of your father now, Mown?’ he said to the bobbing subordinate at his elbow.
Mown hesitated before answering and the slobber sheen of victory was absent from his lips. A prostetnic might be tempted to think that his constant did not revel in this conflict, even though it was perfectly legal. Jeltz felt certain that the gods would file a complaint, but he doubted that it would go past the strongly worded letter stage, not when the Galactic Government had the QUEST in their arsenal. Come to think of it, wasn’t it about time the gods paid a little tax? Those Asgardians had been sitting on prime real estate since shortly after the beginning of time and had never contributed so much as a spent battery to the government coffers.
‘Well, Mown? What say you?’
Mown was shaken to his jellied core. They had just killed a god. Removed an immortal from the Universe. Surely there would be consequences? An equal and opposite reaction must be on the way down the cosmic pipe. And even if there were no consequences, it was so utterly sad.
Mown took a gowpen of his own double chins, hoisting his head erect.
‘I am stunned, Prostetnic. You did it when no one else would have.’
‘Hmmm,’ quorbled Jeltz, finishing the quorble on a satisfied ‘m’. ‘I did, didn’t I? There were whispers back in Megabrantis that I was past it. Imagine that – By-The-Book Jeltz, past it.’
‘By the book?’
‘My new sobriquet. Like it?’
‘What happened to Utter Bastard?’
Jeltz laid an almost boneless hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘I am hoping that you will be Utter Bastard one day.’
Mown hung his head. ‘I already am. We all are.’
Jeltz felt his armpit glands squirt. ‘Well said, my boy. Well said.’
The gunner interrupted this almost tender moment. Well, if not tender at least not heavy with implied violence.
‘Sir. The Earthlings. We’re drifting.’
Jeltz was now suddenly loathe to deal with these Earthlings. It seemed such an anti-climax, but business was blood, so… He rolled his left eye towards the screen and saw that the Business End was indeed straying from its geo-stationary position above the planetoid’s main city.
‘Not that it matters,’ he mumbled. ‘My torpedoes can shoot around corners.’ He flapped a hand at the gunner. ‘Exterminate them. Resistance is useless and all that…’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the gunner, with unseemly glee. Being Vogon was about getting the job done, not about overtly whooping it up over the annihilation of another species, so that your crew members could brand you a sicko and vow to send their daughters to another star system before they would let them date you. ‘Half a dozen low yields should be enough to vaporize the Earthlings. If I could make a suggestion, Prostetnic, it would be within our remit to confiscate the planet these people purchased. I’m sure the criminal assets bureau would be very interested…’
Jeltz was impressed. ‘Why, gunner, that is a fine suggestion. Why don’t you pull your chair a little closer to me? I believe I would like to rub your head.’
‘My greasy crown would be honoured, sir. Just indulge me for a moment as I blow up these people.’
‘Now that’s how you green-nose,’ said Jeltz to his son, but Mown wasn’t listening because he’d had an idea that was doing its very best to knock him off his feet and evaporate his brain fluid with its very audacity.
Constant Mown unstrapped the drool cup from around his neck, raced across the bridge and clobbered the gunner across the brow just as the officer’s finger feathered the ‘fire’ button. The metal container sank through a layer of blubber then connected with cranium. The gunner’s eyes crossed, uncrossed, then closed.
Once again the crew froze to see what Mown’s fate would be. Casual violence was not unusual on a Vogon ship, but violent interruption of a prostetnic’s order being carried out certainly was.
Jeltz leaned back with a swish of abdominal liquid and a hiss of chair.
‘Constant Mown. This is the second time today. I am intr-i-i-i-i-gued.’
The elongation of this last word implied that Mown’s explanation had better be superlative in the history of explanations for seemingly insane actions. Better even than that of Jammois Totalle, the Kyrstian hemagogue who had accidentally brained his wife with his signet ring in his sleep and then claimed the bones of his ancestors had made him do it, even going so far as to have bones shipped from another planet, artificially aged and placed under the roots of his wango-pango tree.
Mown’s skin was sweating on the inside, a rare Vogon condition aggravated by anxiety or dust mites which causes the epidermal pores to leech moisture from the surrounding air and plump up the basal keratinocytes.
‘I thought you had that under control, Mown,’ said Jeltz with obvious disappointment as his son swelled in front of his eyes. ‘Go homeopathic, your mother said, and I listened, Zark help me. Next time it’s straight in the leech pit for you, my boy. Now, as I was saying: intr-i-i-i-i-gued.’
‘This is not right!’ Mown blurted.
‘How do you mean?’ asked Jeltz, puzzled. ‘Ethically? In a right and wrong sense? Please don’t tell me you have developed morals to go with those nimble feet of yours.’ Jeltz drew a horrified breath. ‘Do not tell me my son has evolved?’
Mown clenched his little fists and stood his ground. ‘Firstly, the dust filter must be broken in here, Prostetnic, because my pores are filling up. Secondly, I meant this is not right as in it is not by the book.’
Jeltz’s wattle wobbled. ‘Not by the book, you say? Not by the…’ He swivelled towards the com post. ‘Record this, would you? I may have to explain the execution to his mother.’
Mown forged ahead with his explanation, as his only other option was to lie down and sob for the state of his ra
ce. ‘Our order was to eliminate all Earthlings.’
‘I do hope your argument improves, because so far…’
‘These people bought a planet from the Magratheans.’
‘Ah. I see where you’re going, but the Galactic Government does not govern the Magratheans. They have their own little republic which is a terrible example for the colonies, if you ask me.’
‘You are correct, Prostetnic. Of course, you are, but the Magratheans are a registered business with the government. They have a trade agreement.’
‘I suppose.’
Mown ran to the nearest consol, neglecting to mask his agility. ‘Look!’ he said, quickly pulling up the planning application from the new worlds’ office in Megabrantis. ‘Nano’s planet status has been approved by central planning.’
‘It is difficult for a Vogon to find paperwork irritating, Twinkletoes,’ said Jeltz drily. ‘But I confess that unless you arrive at a point soon…’
‘Point on the horizon, Prostetnic. The central planning office approved Nano as a tax-paying member planet of the planetary union, as governed by the Galactic Government.’
‘Are you just saying the same thing in a different way? Is that why I sent you to university?’ Jeltz picked up a microphone and shouted into the PA. ‘We still need to eliminate the Earthlings.’
‘Look down here, the last paragraph. Megabrantis, as a matter of routine, also blanket approved the citizenship applications of the planet’s owners.’ Mown felt his swelling subside, and steam drifted in wisps from his pores, whistling gently. He was talking law now, and no Vogon would argue with the word of law. ‘Legally, the Earthlings are no longer Earthlings: they are Nano-ites. Or maybe Nanoshians or Nanolings? I’m not sure. But I am sure that if you zap these people, you zap a nice group of high-band taxpayers who have never filed a return. Imagine, By-The-Book Jeltz frying citizens who owe back tax. Wouldn’t Hoopz the Runaround, your old Hall of Kroompst buddy, love to hear about that?’
At this point Mown’s own supply of kroompst was completely exhausted and he stumbled backward into the monitors, his body temperature sending a rainbow arc flashing along the thermo-reactive gas screens.