Elite: Docking is Difficult by Defoe Gideon

Author:Defoe, Gideon [Defoe, Gideon]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781473201316
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2014-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

‘Well, that was pretty intense,’ said Glen, as they stood in the queue of fans waiting to get Marty Zeevon’s signature. ‘Nifty bit of writing there, Tolstoy.’

‘Sorry,’ said Misha, still trying to wipe off his stage makeup, worrying now that it was going to bring him out in one of his rashes. The line shuffled forward a few inches.

‘You did really well, Misha,’ said Phoebe, patting his shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault. I thought your script was actually quite moving.’

‘And at least the G-Dog was there with some mad improvising skills,’ said Glen. He made little pointy gun shapes with his hands and fired imaginary bullets at his own nipples.

‘It was very brave, Glen, the way you just stood up like that. Those laser bolts going off all over the place. You could have been killed,’ said Misha, with a wistful sigh, imagining for a fleeting, happy moment Glen’s head exploding across the convention hall like a watermelon dropped off a pig silo.

Glen laughed, and looked slightly confused. ‘Laser bolts? What are you talking about?’

Phoebe stared at him. ‘They were shooting at us, Glen. How could you not have noticed that?’

‘Jesus Christ, seriously? I just saw them lob a few figurines,’ he rubbed his chin. ‘Oh, man, I forgot – it’ll be the eye surgery. I can’t really see any bright colours. Had a guy in the Malpha system scrape most of the cones out from my retinas. It’s like the most hip procedure these days: gives everything a washed out, cinematic look. Makes it seem like you’re in an independently produced movie all the time. You should try it.’

‘Good grief.’

‘By the way, pretty good “acting” on that kiss there, cupcake.’

‘Well, that’s what it was. Acting,’ said Phoebe, shooting Misha a quick, anxious glance. ‘Let’s just be really clear on that.’

‘Sure it was, Pheebs. Sure it was. You know, I think I might keep this costume when we’re done.’ Glen rubbed his square jaw and gazed appreciatively at his own reflection in one of the room’s portholes. Then he looked at the fans ahead of them in the queue and rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, losers, keep it moving along here.’ He turned back to Phoebe and Misha with an exasperated shake of his head. ‘Have you noticed how, despite what it says on the posters, nobody here really looks particularly dynamic and goal orientated?’

They finally got to the front of the queue. Marty Zeevon, looking like an impossibly wrinkled human walnut in thick pebble spectacles, peered myopically up at them from where he sat behind his desk, next to a big stack of glossy photographs. The photographs showed Marty with his arm around Cliff. It had obviously been taken a few decades before, because, wrinkle-wise, Marty looked less like a walnut, more like a pug.

‘It’s two credits a signature,’ he rasped. ‘Three, if you want it personalised in any way. If your name has more than six letters I charge an extra credit.’

‘Mister Zeevon, we were hoping to talk to you about Cliff Ganymede’s murder,’ said Phoebe, deciding to cut straight to the point.

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