“No, it had Onstar,” Barb sighed, keeping her eyes vigilantly fixed on the road as Ozzy rolled casually onto Mulholland Drive. “Now it has a virus telling OnStar that this car is heading to Reno.”

Jane and Edmund stared at one another. Edmund wanted very badly to ask how that was possible. But, he thought, there was already such a long list of impossible things that he really should ask about first. But before he could ask an intelligent question, Jane piped up.

“How come OnStar thinks the car is going to Reno?” she asked, leaning forward and scrutinizing the glowing panel to the right of the steering column. Unusual markings flashed over the map as it followed the car along the Grapevine, some forty miles north of their true location. Jane reached out to tap the screen, but Ozzy slapped her hand away.

“Ow!” Jane complained. “What the hell, Ozzy?”

“Seriously. You guys both almost got killed by an alien assassin but what you want to know is how we hack OnStar?” Ozzy snapped back, incredulous. The humans in the back seat fell silent. Palm trees, yucca plants, and juniper bushes whizzed by in between enormous gates and sprawling lawns as Ozzy accelerated the stolen Cadillac.

“So,” Edmund ventured casually, “Barb is a robot?”

Barb sighed and shook here head. “Here we go,” she muttered as she lowered the vanity mirror and checked to see that no trace of damage remained on her face. “We’re both robots,” she answered in a distracted tone as her head suddenly turned to glance at some sudden motion on her side of the vehicle. After a moment she relaxed and resumed her stoic, vigilant gaze.

“Cyborgs? Like in Terminator?” Edmund wailed incredulously, bracing himself as the car took a corner just a little too quick. “Human flesh and from the future and all that.”

“Future, yes, cyborg no. Only an idiot would put real human flesh over a titanium alloy endoskeleton,” Ozzy grumbled. “If I had real skin, every time I sat down my metal bones would rip right through my ass. Forget about picking a fight with alien special forces. Barb and I are both made of an endoskeleton covered with nanocells, which look like real skin but take less damage and can repair themselves.”

“Liquid metal?” Edmund asked, getting excited. “So why didn’t you say come with me if you want to live?”

“Sorry if we didn’t have you doctor our script, Eddie,” Barb muttered, her voice dry and prickly. “We can think for ourselves, you know.”

“So, you have full autonomy?” Jane asked, furrowing her eyebrows. “How do you know you’re not just following your programming?”

“How do you know you’re not just following yours?” Barb returned. “Not to get too metaphysical about it, but picking apart behavior and motives is just as complicated for us as it is for you. Believe me, we all use up a lot of RAM on that question. But yeah, at the end of it, we choose what we want to be. Lots of us pick new names when we’re reborn.”

“Why did you pick your names?” Jane inquired, relaxing a bit. The strangeness of this new information intrigued her, and she pushed thoughts of ray guns and explosions out of her mind.

“Barbara means barbarian, which I found appropriately ironic,” Barb replied. “Living as an enhanced human mind when you’re surrounded by a bunch of monkeys banging rocks together can be pretty interesting.”

“Ozzy?” Jane asked, turning to the bodyguard behind the wheel.

“I dunno. Ozzy just sounds kind of badass. Plus I like Black Sabbath. Used to listen to them a lot in high school,” he answered coolly, adjusting his sunglasses as he spoke.

Edmund sat back in his seat and murmured to himself, “Homicidal space aliens and our very own robots. Fuck me.”

“We prefer the term mechanical humanity, okay?” Ozzy snapped, gripping the steering wheel so hard that it dented slightly as he veered onto Benedict Canyon Drive. “Almost all of us were once pigskins, with very few exceptions.”

Jane looked at Barb expectantly. Her assistant glanced nervously at Ozzy and tried to diffuse the tension in the car with a matter-of-fact explanation in a low, controlled tone. “Pigskins is the . . . politically incorrect term for a flesh-and-blood human.”

“Kill me now,” Edmund interjected, “In the future there’s still political correctness, but people turn into robots and then use slurs against humans? Why that’s . . . what is it? Racist?”

Barb shook her head. “No, it’s just that most people like us are very old, and old people get cranky when whippersnappers like yourself won’t shut up and allow us to explain that the aliens are coming to get you, and if you don’t do exactly as we say, you will be blasted into a big pile of foamy pink goo.”

Edmund stared at Barb with his mouth hanging open.

“How did you know the alien was going to explode?” Jane asked, unfazed by the threat of goo, however pink and foamy. “There wasn’t any warning, and none of us saw a bomb.”

Barb glanced nervously at Ozzy, who suddenly veered sharply to the right. The tires of the sedan squealed, and Jane slammed into Edmund, who slammed into the door. The humans groaned as Ozzy ripped out of the turn, slammed on the accelerator, and took another hairpin turn to the left. Jane and Edmund slammed into the other door.

“You two should put your seat belts on,” Barb advised. The two passengers in the back of the car quickly reached for their restraints, hoping there were no more sharp turns on the road down to Beverly Hills.

“How did you–” Jane began again, but Ozzy cut her off.

“We each have a subroutine that automatically taps into any wireless network within range, and his communications port was insanely unsecure. I didn’t even need to forge credentials. Plus, while a bioform is distracted, they are less likely to notice that we can dig for data during a fistfight. As soon as the countdown started, I told Barb we were out of there,” Ozzy replied. After a moment, he began laughing uncontrollably. “What, did you think the guy’s self-destruct mechanism was going to conveniently light up and blink to give you enough time to dramatically run away from the slow-motion explosion?” he chuckled and held up his hands. “Boom! Slowwwww . . . motion . . . glaaaaam . . . shot . . .”

Even Jane allowed herself a pinched little smile as she thought of that. People certainly were idiots when it came to realistic film portrayals of hostile alien invaders. Then something dawned on her. She sat upright and leaned forward. “You didn’t say anything to Barb,” she pointed out. “What do you mean you ‘told Barb we were out of there?’”

Barb rolled her eyes. Dammit, she said to Ozzy silently over their wireless link, Busted.

They were gonna figure it out sometime, Ozzy answered. They can be pissed off. They can hate us. Whatever. But they have to stay alive and I think if we don’t convince them or incapacitate them, they’ll bail.

We can’t tell them everything just yet. One piece at a time. We have to explain why there is a war before we tell them that they have a part in it.

Four tenths of a second had passed since Jane had asked her question. Barb finished her conversation with Ozzy, waited another second and a half, and answered her boss. “We can communicate, yeah. Kind of like robot instant messenger.”

“So that means you can talk without us hearing?”

Barb pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yeah.”

“Are you doing it now?” Edmund piped up as he furrowed his eyebrows and stared them both down.

“No,” Jane said, glancing over at Ozzy, who glanced back at her with a deliberately guilty expression.

“You are,” Edmund accused, looking back and forth between them. “You’re just having a go at the both of us. Is this some kind of bizarre method exercise that Jack put you up to?”

Without turning her head, Barb hissed back, “This isn’t a joke.”

A wicked grin pulled at the corners of Ozzy’s mouth. “Jack would do something like that though, wouldn’t he?” he grunted, fixing his eyes on the road as they rolled casually to a stop at a red light just a few blocks from Sunset Boulevard. Barb reached into her purse for a small pistol with a glowing magazine, and both of the robots scanned the crowd of pedestrians with sudden intensity.

“This is ridiculous,” Edmund shouted as he unlatched his seat belt and reached for the door handle. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your laugh at my expense. I’m going home.”

He pulled on the door latch and began to push outward on the door. But before it had opened more than a millimeter, Barb’s arm extended, gripped the handle, and pulled it shut. Edmund threw his entire weight against the door. He shoved. He kicked. The door didn’t budge. Jane shrieked in horror at the sight of the unnaturally long, disturbingly bent limb extending between the front seats, over her leg, and across her husband’s body.

Ozzy peeled off to the right and plunged into an alley behind the Beverly Hills Women’s Club. The car lurched to a halt.

“You’re not getting out until I say it’s safe to,” Barb said, her voice steadily rising to an unnaturally strong level. The humans’ ears ached as she spoke. “If we’re lucky, they think you’re dead. The longer you both stay missing, the more time we have to make a plan and the better your chances are of not dying. You don’t get to decide whether or not you participate in this little adventure, and you are definitely not going home. Now put your seatbelt on.”

Edmund reached for his seatbelt. Barb retracted her arm and it reformed into a natural shape. Ozzy slowly accelerated. Nobody made a sound as the car moved carefully out of the alley and turned out onto Sunset Boulevard.

Two minutes of silence passed before Edmund spoke again. “Can you at least tell me who wants us dead?”

“Aliens,” Ozzy grumbled.

“What kind of aliens?”

“They’re like . . .” Ozzy fumbled for the right words. “. . . space vikings, okay? Really angry, mean space vikings who do whatever their leaders tell them to. And their leaders told them to kill you.”

“Of course. Space vikings.” Edmund nodded, his eyes wide with mock wonder. “Do they wear pointy helmets?” he asked flippantly.

Seriously, I can’t take any more of this, Ozzy complained to Barb. Let’s just shut them up and get them there.

Barb shrugged indifferently, turned, and glared at Edmund. Her eyes turned a frightening shade of chartreuse and the writer slumped against the car door.

“Wow!” Jane cried, her face filled with wonder and delight. “He’s totally passed out. Can you teach me to do that to him?”

Jane glared at her, and soon the leading lady was slumped against the window, fast asleep. Other than gentle snoring coming from the back seat, there was not another sound in the car until it reached its destination.

© 2009 Stella Quinn

A nervous hush fell over the set. The Assistant Director’s eyes slowly panned across the room. Everyone stared back like frightened deer. The boom operator’s arms tensed and he swallowed in fear, willing the microphone not to pick up any unwanted sound. The Third Assistant Director gripped her clipboard and held it over her mouth. Jane clasped her hands into fists, trying to suck all of the sweat and tension in the room into her own body. She stared at the ramp that she was about to run up and rehearsed the scene in fast forward in her mind. Run to the cockpit. There are alarms sounding. Flick the three switches above the pilot. Then realize that the enemy is already inside the ship.

“Roll Sound,” the Assistant Director called. The Production Sound Mixer signaled his crew and crouched intently over a laptop monitoring the set’s recording instruments. The whirring of a spaceship’s engines hummed to life.

“Sound speed,” the production sound mixer called out, giving a thumbs up to the assistant director.

With closed eyes and a pinched forehead, the assistant director said, “Roll camera,” in a low and desperate tone.

“Speed,” the camera operator replied in barely a whisper.

Then all eyes turned to a skinny boy holding a clapperboard in front of the camera. “Marker,” he said in a hopeful tone, and slapped the clapper down on the slate. He scurried out of the way with a relieved look on his face. Long seconds ticked by. The camera operator gripped the handles of his Steadicam even tighter. Nobody moved. One by one the members of the crew turned to look at the director.

After a long, terrible silence, Jack Lee stepped forward and shouted, “Action!”

Jane opened her eyes and sprang forward as Captain Blake, shaking and sweaty as she rushed toward the cockpit. Her skin had a pale glow and her eyes looked wild and fearful. She ran down the spaceship’s corridor, gripping her assault rifle and rushing as close as possible past the camera without jostling it.

“Jonsey!” she cried out, slowing a touch as she reached the top of the ramp to allow the camera operator to pull a swift 180, his crouched legs taking the short, impossibly smooth steps of a great Steadicam operator. The boom operator scooted noiselessly behind him. Jane leaned forward over the teenager in the pilot’s seat, who was gripping the shaking helm while frantically trying to monitor half a dozen alarms lighting up on his control panel. “What have we got?” she asked, frightened but under control.

“I’ve got alarms going off in cargo bays six, nine, and thirty-seven,” the pilot responded, pointing to flashing alarms. “And outer hull airlock two is–”

But then the lights inside the spacecraft suddenly went out. Jane hesitated. This was not in the script, but after seven takes she felt compelled to just go with it. This was the first time they’d actually managed to make it to “Action” without something going wrong. In the first take, a few light bulbs fell from the upper catwalk as the assistant director called for the camera to roll, although no one had been standing up there. In the second, a catering table had inexplicably fallen over immediately after the call for quiet. Each time it was something different, and each time it was a setback that stalled production by a precious few more minutes. But this error could work. Jane continued.

“What was that?” Jonsey asked, genuinely confused.

“Put her on autopilot,” Captain Blake ordered. “Come with me. We need to close the outer hull breach or we’ll lose heat and air.”

“Sure thing, Cap,” Jonsey replied, reaching out to flick a switch. But instead of touching a lever, the boy’s hand fumbled in the darkness and gripped a loose wire on the control panel poking right up between the lights and switches. He went rigid, shaking violently and crying out in an unearthly moan. Jane smelled the horrid odor of burning hair. She looked over at her castmate, saw the wire, and used her rubber prop assault rifle to push him free from the wire.

“Charlie, are you okay?” she cried out, crouching down. The kid was groaning and gripping his hand.

“What’s happening?” Jane heard the director cry out.

“We have to stop,” she roared back at him.

“No, no, keep going,” Jack complained. “That was good stuff. We’ll fix the lights on the panel in post.”

Jane pulled down the boom mic, gripped the lens of the Steadicam, and shouted into them both so Jack would see her clearly on the monitors. “We’re not going to keep going. Charlie got electrocuted.” Together Jane and the boom operator helped Charlie to his feet, and they limped down to ground level from the set pieces. Jane heard the entire cast and crew in an uproar, with Jack throwing a tantrum in the director’s chair.

“That’s lunch, everybody,” the assistant director called out nervously, glancing over at Jack, who was now screaming at the set dresser. “Then we’ll try it again.”

“How about the medic?” Jane bellowed, growing more annoyed by the second. The assistant director started, then waved furiously at the set medic, who hurriedly dropped the cheese pastry he was munching and rushed to find his bag. Most of the cast and crew shuffled out, eager to get away from the director and have some lunch.

“Your first day with your first big part, and we try to kill you, huh, kiddo?” Jane joked with Charlie, who was still shaking. The boom operator helped them both to a few folding chairs at the edge of the set. Members of the crew gathered around and asked how the boy felt.

“It’s not so bad,” Charlie muttered, shrugging.

“We’re going to have continuity problems with that hair,” Jane joked dryly, rumpling Charlie’s frizzed hair as the medic reached them. The crew laughed, and Charlie ran a finger through his now fuzzy mop of hair. “I’ll tell makeup to get some sleeking goo ready after the doc clears you.”

Charlie laughed haltingly. “At least my mom wasn’t here today. She would have freaked out,” he said as his agent pushed through the crowd to sit at his side. “I totally got electrocuted,” he told her.

“Electric shock,” the doctor corrected him, opening his bag. “If you’d been electrocuted you’d be dead.”

“Your mom is going to have to find out, Charlie,” the boy’s agent warned him. “I’m only your guardian on set. But don’t worry. I’ll talk her out of pulling you from the production.”

“How is your breathing?” the doctor asked, pulling out a stethoscope.

“Fine. It totally sucks that I’m the only one who has to have a babysitter,” Charlie complained as the doctor pressed a stethoscope to his heart and listened intently.

“You’re the only one who’s–” Charlie’s agent began, but the boy cut him off finishing, “– a minor in need of supervision by a parent or guardian.”

Jane laughed to herself. “Been there, done that,” she said sympathetically. “Don’t worry. Once you turn eighteen your parents stop following around and the paparazzi does it instead. What do we have, doc?”

“Heart sounds good,” the set medic said, sounding relieved. He retrieved a flashlight and checked the boy’s pupils. “If he were in respiratory arrest he wouldn’t be able to chit-chat. There’s no burns, but I need to find out from the electrician how many volts he got.”

“Why?” Charlie asked, concerned.

“So you can brag about it,” the doctor answered. “You got lucky, but pay close attention to how you feel for the next day or two and tell me right away if you have dizziness, tingling, blurry vision, or if your skin gets redder than it is now. I’d like to check you again in a few minutes, but you should be just fine. I think it’s going to be up to you whether or not you want to keep shooting or go home.”

“It’s up to me,” Charlie’s agent corrected him.

“I’m not a baby,” Charlie grumbled. “I’m fine to keep going, but I want some rubber gloves for the next take.”

“Rubber gloves. I’ll tell Wardrobe,” his agent said loudly, trotting off in a hurry.

“It was a joke,” Charlie shouted after her, shaking his head. Jane patted the boy on the shoulder as the doctor helped him to his feet and led him off the set. The circle of people around her castmate followed them out toward the catering tent. Jane sighed as she recalled that she wasn’t allowed to have lunch today. She was following her shooting diet of skipping every fourth meal. To distract herself during the break, she pulled her mobile phone from her pocket. It wasn’t supposed to be with her while she was in costume, but as long as she remembered to switch it off she’d never get caught. The phone buzzed as she turned it on, and she began furiously typing away. She strode toward a far corner of the sound stage, where she found Edmund passed out on an overstuffed red couch that seemed to be in that particular spot for the use of exhausted crew members. She flopped down onto the couch and continued typing.

Edmund roused, sitting bolt upright. “Whazgonon?” he mumbled.

“Nothing, just we should maybe consider retitling the film Gag Reel. All we’ve got so far are bloopers,” Jane muttered.

“Whatimezit?”

Jane checked her mobile. “Twelve thirty.”

Edmund yawned and tapped her mobile with his fingertip. “You’re not meant to have that on the set.”

“Whatever you say, Sir Edmund,” Jane muttered, yanking it away from him.

Edmund glowered at her. Stupid bloggers. He watched Jane finish a message and tap the send button on the screen with satisfaction. “What are you doing anyway? Saying hi to your mum on Facebook?”

“No,” Jane sighed, pleased that he finally asked the question she’d hoped for. “I’ve just finished posting the photos from last night.”

“What?” he cried, then lowered his voice to a hissing whisper. “You can’t put those online. They’re evidence we were trespassing.”

She answered him with a stony glare. “I didn’t put my name on it. I created brand new accounts for everything and spoofed the IP address so nobody can see I was on the backlot when they went live. I created a fake Twitter account and tweeted the pics to myself, you and TMZ. In a few minutes I’ll retweet it, and the whole world will see them.”

“How’d you learn to do that?” Edmund asked, incredulous. “Can you even do that?”

“Didn’t you ever see Network Alarm?” Jane looked at Edmund, who shook his head. “It was that one where I spent three months preparing by working at a tech support company.”

Edmund nodded, recollecting. “I never saw that one. That’s the one where you were the tech support representative who stopped the terrorists by using their cell phones to remotely rewire their bombs so they didn’t go off on the airplanes?”

“Yeah,” Jane said, returning to her mobile. She was flicking rapidly through search results on her browser.

“I heard that one was crap.” Edmund said callously.

“Can’t win ‘em all,” Jane answered with a shrug, annoyed at Edmund’s bluntness, even if he had been right. “But check this out.” She handed him the mobile. “I haven’t even retweeted it but it’s already getting picked up. I think it’s time for me to respond.” She typed away on the tiny screen. “Proof . . . that . . . Karma . . . exists . . .” she muttered. “Now . . . the paparazzi . . . have . . . paparazzi.” Jane snapped her mobile shut, sighed, and leaned back on the couch.

“You’re scary and evil,” Edmund said, feeling sleepy again. “We had better not get caught,” he warned her. “The out of court settlement will be astronomical.”

“Not if we threaten to countersue over the bugs placed in the house,” Jane pointed out.

“We can’t prove he did that,” Edmund reminded her, rubbing his eyes. “Could have been anyone.”

Jane shrugged indifferently. “We have scary lawyers.”

“Not as scary as the alien costumes that Wardrobe cooked up,” he replied, sitting up with sudden energy. “Look at that.”

Jane turned her head and looked where her husband was pointing. “Whoa,” she said involuntarily. A tall figure was striding purposefully toward them, moving behind the darkened set. Its skin was a light charcoal color, and writhing tentacles cascaded down its back. At first it moved on four legs, then reared up on two and began to move faster. It front legs — or were they hands? — reached for a cylinder of copper-colored metal in a holster strapped to its torso.

“That looks incredible!” Jane called out. “Who is that? Jimmy? Elena?” The figure did not respond. It began moving faster. “Seriously, that’s amazing latex work,” she said, her voice beginning to waver. Jane looked around. No one was close by. Even if she shouted for help, it would not get to her before the alien did. The creature raised the weapon it was holding. Jane shrieked and grabbed Edmund by the arm.

“Run!” she shouted.

“Wait!” Edmund said back, pushing her away. “It’s just the guys having a laugh. Look–”

But as he turned, his eyes grew wide. An ominous yellow light was growing in the depths of the copper cylinder. In a panic, he turned to run, though he had no idea where to run to. He smashed into Jane and they tumbled to the floor. They heard a terrible rush of air and a thundering boom. A wave of light washed over them both, and Jane felt an impossibly strong hand grip her and throw her aside. Her ears could perceive no sound, and she felt rubble hit her. She looked around, and saw that herself and Edmund were being held fast by Barb, who had pinned herself over them both. They had skidded fifteen feet away from where they had fallen, which was now a smoking black crater eight feet deep.

The alien turned and roared at them, purplish phlegm whizzing past its four rows of serrated teeth. It began quickly reloading its weapon, pumping a canister from its vest into the rear chamber. Barb rose to her feet and aimed an enormous, heavy-looking pistol at the attacker. She pumped seven white-hot rounds into the enemy’s torso, each one leaving the chamber with a quiet, muffled thump. The alien stumbled backward as the glowing bullets hit him. Deep magenta goo sprayed from the wounds.

The alien was angry, not injured. It reared back on its hind legs and then charged, running like a horse. Barb braced herself for impact. But just before it reached them, a massive figure flew horizontally through the air and slammed into the creature. Ozzy and the alien rolled back for twenty feet, grappling at one another until they crunched heavily against the back wall. Ozzy’s massive hand closed on the alien’s throat, and he lifted it bodily from the ground, knocking the weapon from its hand. He slammed it three times against the wall. But the creature howled angrily, arched its back, and used its tentacles to shove back with remarkable force. Ozzy stumbled backwards and the alien rolled down to the floor.

Barb dashed forward, recovering the enemy’s weapon. In a flash, she was back in front of Jane and Edmund, crouched and ready to defend. The alien snarled at her, spitting goo and blood from its wide mouth.

Ozzy reached over his shoulder and pulled a titanium cylinder from a pocket on the back of his vest that looked as if it were meant to hold a Bowie knife. He twisted it sharply in his hand. With a whirring sound, the cylinder expanded and grew taller. From the top of the shaft sprung two shining axe blades, and a spike formed at the top. Ozzy twirled the battle axe once in his hand, gripped it firmly, and charged.

The alien, weaponless but by no means helpless, snarled and ran at Ozzy. Before they collided, Ozzy slipped deftly to one side and sliced off the tips of three of the alien’s tentacles. Deep purple liqid poured from the wounds, and the howl let out by the creature shook the walls. It spun quickly and clobbered Ozzy with its front legs, sending him to the floor. It dove on top of its prey, and for a few moments the two grappled on the floor. Ozzy was pinned on his back, and as the wide mouth opened in a slimy grin, the bodyguard gave a mighty kick with both feet that sent the alien flying. It slammed into the wall with an oozing crunch, then fell onto the red couch in a heap. Ozzy rose quickly, took three steps, leaped into the air, and brought his axe down on his foe, cleaving its head in two.

Ozzy stood and surveyed his vanquished enemy. Barb pulled Jane to her feet. The actress stood with her mouth hanging open. Edmund lay flat on the floor, and after a moment’s silence, let out a terrified scream.

“We should get out –” Barb began saying to Jane, but the assistant and the bodyguard both suddenly turned and looked ominously at the dead alien’s corpse.

“What?” Jane asked, unable to see what attracted their attention.

“Go!” Ozzy shouted. Barb tossed him the alien’s weapon and the bodyguard barreled ahead of them. He pointed the alien gun at the wall, still running at full tilt, and blasted a hole in it. Barb lifted Jane and Edmund in each arm and ran after Ozzy. They picked up speed as they ran out of the sound stage onto the backlot. Barb spotted an enormous blue dumpster ahead, and she and Ozzy sprinted toward it. Barb tossed the Hollywood royals ten feet in the air, and they landed roughly on the cardboard piled inside. The bodyguard and the assistant leaped after them into the dumpster.

“Cover your ears and open your mouth!” Ozzy shouted at them, pulling cardboard over their bodies. In shock, Jane and Edmund obeyed. Within a split second, a massive explosion roared around them. A wave of hot air, smoke, and fire washed over the top of the dumpster, and Jane and Edmund gasped for breath. Plaster and metal rained down on top of them.

“Are we clear?” Ozzy asked Barb, who poked her head above the dumpster.

“Go now,” Barb orderd. Ozzy tossed Jane and Edmund, who were now limp, sweaty, and filthy, down to the assistant, who caught them and placed them lightly on their feet. Ozzy jumped down after them, landing with a heavy thud.

Edmund put his hands on his head and gaped at the massive black cloud of smoke that hovered over what remained of the sound stage. “What?” he whispered, turning to Ozzy and pointing. “What happ –”

But he trailed off and stared, blank-faced, at the bodyguard. Two long, deep laceration from the alien’s claws stretched across his right cheek, revealing the unmistakable gleam of metal underneath. Jane looked up and saw the same thing. She recoiled, and Barb reached out and took her arm to keep her from stumbling onto a pile of burning wood and re-bar.

“What are you?” Jane gasped.

“No questions,” Barb snapped, examining her pistol for damage. She removed the magazine, pushed it back in, pulled back the slide and turned off the safety. “Let’s go.”

© 2009 Stella Quinn

The sound had no effect, as if it were the distant sound of caterers setting up lunch. It had no meaning.

“Eddie.”

A vague flicker of familiarity tugged at Edmund’s mind, but not enough to help him connect the sound he was hearing to the idea that it was his name.

“Eddie. Wake up, man.”

Ed bolted upright as a hand shook him awake. He choked and coughed from the sudden change in his breathing and stared into the sunlight, completely disoriented.

“What?” he demanded to know from the cruel person who had dragged him away from the first moments of sleep he’d gotten in three days. He rubbed his eyes and looked up, finally making out Pike’s robust silhouette.

“It’s starting, baby. You should at least stand there.”

Ed snorted. “My head hurts.”

Pike just stood there. He’d learned, far quicker than most of Edmund’s American colleagues, to ignore him when he was deliberately pessimistic. Edmund roused himself and stood slowly, groaning in protest. They moved toward the crowd of restless reporters.

“Where is she?” Edmund asked. But before Pike could answer, Jane emerged from her trailer in full costume and makeup. She was wearing a gray astronaut’s jumpsuit, which had been modified so that the sleeve could fit over her bandaged arm. Barb and Ozzy were close behind her, scanning the rooftops and pathways between the trailers and sound stages. The crowd erupted with clamoring questions, but she just smiled as Pike rushed in to introduce her. Edmund tried to pay attention but the effort of staying awake made it impossible to hear what he was saying. He managed to rouse a bit at the sound of Jane’s voice when she took the first question.

His head was buzzing with exhaustion, but he managed to listen as she acknowledged that yes, the injury done to her arm had been severe, but that it wouldn’t stop her.

“We’ve worked so hard to get this film off the ground. I couldn’t imagine doing anything to stop it now,” Jane said with elegant serenity. “We’ll start filming in just a few minutes and I’m very much looking forward to working with Jack. This role should be a lot of fun and a real challenge for me as an actor.”

“Wow, she sounds like she means that,” Edmund thought, not realizing that he was also speaking aloud.

“I know, right?” Pike whispered back, a look of genuine adoration on his face as he watched his top client take lemons and turn them into Dom Perignon. Public opinion couldn’t be better. Every female on the blogosphere was praising “Sir Edmund” for throwing his body in front of his wife. The attacks had generated a wave of sympathy for them both. Jane’s gratitude and resiliency suddenly made everyone in town forget that she was a demanding prima donna who had been singled out in the press no fewer than seventeen times for refusing to come out of her trailer until she was brought precisely three and a half ounces of organic papaya juice.

Jane gracefully moving her bandaged arm into an ideal position for photos as she was asked about what she did after the attack on the red carpet. She lied through her teeth, saying that her heart had been heavy after she’d come home from the hospital, but that a good night’s rest helped her to keep it all in perspective. Edmund nearly believed her. She didn’t look at all like she’d been up all night screaming, having an enormous gash in her arm stitched up, and illegally videotaping a not-so-innocent member of the press.

“I’m just so grateful that there are amazing doctors to stitch me up when I get into trouble,” she gushed, “as well as amazing people who donate blood. To say thanks to the amazing people at UCLA medical center, I’ll be sponsoring a blood drive to be sure that our hospitals have all the blood they need.”

“What an amazing speech,” Barb muttered to Ozzy, her lips barely moving. The pair of them were getting fidgety from standing perfectly still a few feet behind Jane. “And lucky me, now I get to organize a blood drive. With all my spare time.”

“Aww, but you’ll be doing so much good,” he taunted back at her. “And when you’re done, you can give everyone on Earth a puppy.”

“If I were capable of vomiting, I’d do it on your boots, Oz,” Barb grumbled. Ozzy glared at her. “That’s right, Ozzy,” Barb continued. “Your shiny black motorcycle boots.” The bodyguard laughed silently and cracked his knuckles a few times, shuffling his idle feet.

Jane took one or few more questions, giving appropriately vague responses that would do well as a sound bite on the gossip shows. Pike stepped in after sending a subtle signal to Jane.

“Thanks so much, everybody,” Pike said, holding his hands up and waving. “I think out of this tragedy we can all realize the importance of journalistic integrity. This is not the first time someone has been pursued by the paparazzi with disastrous results.”

Edmund rolled his eyes and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sun was bearing down hard and he wanted to get inside and start shooting. He began to fidget, shuffling from one foot to another. Pike went on and on, fielding questions on behalf of Jane and the production company. His canned answers sound particularly unrehearsed today, he thought, glancing over his shoulder and noticing that Barb and Ozzy were standing about twenty feet back in the only nearby patch of shade underneath a scrawny laurel tree choked by its concrete planter. With awkward and unsubtle steps, he moved back toward them.

Barb and Ozzy had not been speaking, but they looked at him as if he had interrupted a private conversation.

“Sir,” Ozzy acknowledged quietly. Barb nodded with a faint smile, and their eyes both snapped back to the press conference.

“I thought this was supposed to be short,” Edmund complained.

“It was,” Barb sighed.

Edmund stretched and yawned. “Had I known they’d go on this long I would have bought a pillow.”

“You would have had a short nap,” Barb replied. “They want you over there.”

Edmund did a double take. Sure enough, Pike was waving him over and the reporters were staring intently. Jane was giving him a pointed, expectant look. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then puttered over to the crowd, hoping he looked bashful instead of resentful. He managed to collect himself just as he reached the cluster of microphones. He tried to say hello but the sound wasn’t picked up, and the sharp squeal of feedback made everyone wince.

“Yes?” Edmund muttered. “You wanted to speak with me?”

The crowd chuckled at his lack of showmanship.

“Do you have any theories about who attacked your wife?’” a reporter called out.

“No, not at present.”

“Did you sustain any injuries?”

Edmund shook his head. “Apart from bursting a seam on my tuxedo jacket, no.”

The reporters were now speaking over one another, but he managed to make out the next question. “Where did you get the training for last night’s heroics?”

Edmund just stared blankly. “I dunno what you mean. Next.”

“What did you do after you after the attack?”

“Uhh,” Edmund stammered, clearing his throat. “Went to hospital, dealt with some staff who were unhappy that we had no insurance cards or identification, read some outdated copies of Sports Illustrated while they stitched up Jane, and then went home and . . . that was all.”

“What kind of criminal case is being considered?”

“That’s a question for the police. Next.”

“Have you and Jane hired extra security?”

“That seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it?” Edmund laughed, then checked himself. “We’re considering every option to ensure our safety. One last question please.”

“Female bloggers are calling you Sir Edmund for your act of heroism. What is your response to that?”

“Are you joking?”

© 2009 Stella Quinn

Jane shushed him. She refocused the binoculars she was holding and strained to look through them. He’d been asking question after question since they’d left the house three hours ago. Jane wondered why someone she usually had to prod into conversation was suddenly so curious. “What’s in the bag?” “Why won’t you tell me where I’m driving you?” “How come you’re making me wear this stupid beanie?” Whine whine whine, Jane thought.

“Seriously Jane–-” but he was cut off with a wave of her uninjured hand. He rolled his eyes, ran his fingers through his goatee and turned back to his PSP. He was glad he’d thought to bring it. It was the only thing keeping him calm. His main concern was keeping Jane from doing anything to make her injuries worse, and his mind was racing with plans to persuade her to go home.

“Can you make the screen less bright?” Jane hissed. Edmund shot her a withering glare and fumbled with the device, trying to remember if it even had a function for that. As he fumbled with it, he accidentally switched the console off and it slipped from his hands, falling under his seat. He reached to turn on the car’s overhead light, but Jane swatted his hand before he could.

“Very nice, thanks,” he snapped at her.

“No lights,” Jane reminded him for the thirteenth time and then ignored him for a moment. Edmund folded his arms and stared sullenly out the window, too grumpy to attempt sleeping through this ridiculousness.

“What time is it?” she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the binoculars.

“Four fifty-two sodding late to be driving around pulling teenage pranks,” Edmund grumbled, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. It was very late. This was a terrible idea. They had to work in the morning. He hadn’t spent more than a few minutes working on the script tonight. And the doctor had told Jane not to move around too much or her stitches would tear loose. This stupid escapade was the result of blood loss, painkillers, and Jane being far too accustomed to getting her own way. He lowered his voice to the tiniest whisper and tried one last time. “What are we doing here?”

“We are parked outside the apartment of David Christopher Williams,” she purred, finally ready to give up a detail. She had caught sight of a dark Volvo station wagon turning off of San Fernando Road and moving toward them.

“And who is that?” Edmund wanted to know. “Because that name sounds like he’s either a serial killer or a pop star you had a mad crush on in primary school.”

“That’s the tubby sack of crap that chased us from the salon earlier today. I figured he’d be getting home after all the awards parties right about now,” she said triumphantly, unable to tear her eyes away from the Volvo, which pulled into a carport not twenty feet from where they sat. “Probably the one night of the year I could be able to predict his schedule. We’re gonna get him.”

“He’s hardly worth it,” Edmund groaned flippantly, rubbing his temples. “Don’t forget they still have the death penalty for premeditated murder in California.”

“No, not that,” Jane snapped, annoyed that Edmund hadn’t caught on to her brilliant plan. “We’re going to give that stalker a taste of his own medicine. Him and as many other paparazzi that we can catch on film. I’d rather jet the . . . jerkface . . . that came after me tonight, but I don’t know who he is. But as far as I’m concerned they’re all the same. They all do this to us, so they can all be punished.”

Edmund was stunned. The idea was pure insanity. They’d be arrested, or worse, sued. But something about the idea seduced him in a matter of moments. Revenge. These bastards were the cockroaches of a career in Hollywood — you could never get rid of them, there were always more, and they would always come to infest your life in any way they could. To turn the tables . . . to see them squirm as unflattering photos were consumed by an eager public . . . to serve up the tiniest taste of the cruelty and humiliation that they inflicted on celebrities so that the public could smugly pity them and cope better with the fact that their lives would never be as glamorous or interesting . . .

“It’s insane,” Edmund gasped. “And brilliant. I can’t decide which.”

“Well, this one just got home,” Jane grinned, holding up a camera with a high-quality, low-light zoom lens attached to the front. “Want to go hunting?”

“Wha?” Edmund was baffled.

Jane silently opened her door. He suppressed a cry of objection and hurried to follow her. She turned and hissed “shush!” at him when he closed the coor with an audible slam. He trotted after her, beginning to rehearse what he would say to the cops when they got caught. Moments later, they were creeping along the wall of the apartment complex’s parking lot.

“I didn’t see which one he went into,” Edmund whispered nervously. He crouched awkwardly, clutching Jane’s supply bag. Stella, channeling her last action film, moved with stealth, holding the camera as if it were an Uzi. She whirled gracefully past a floodlight and retreated behind a hibiscus bush planted by the porch of apartment 21.

“It’s this one,” she mouthed as Edmund joined her, somewhat less noiselessly.

“How do you know?” he whispered, scurrying up beside her.

“Barb figured out which photo agency had the best information on me earlier today. When we got home tonight I looked up their staff directory, recognized his picture, and then I just googled him,” she shrugged, moving through the camera’s menu settings to switch the low light filter on and the flash off. “It’s totally creepy how easy it is to find out stuff about people online, even if they don’t have Wikipedia pages like us.”

“His address was online?”

Jane nodded. “I also know his cholesterol count, his high school GPA, and that he’s allergic to peanuts.”

Edmund’s jaw dropped.

She shrugged again. “I know, the Internet is totally creepy, right? And I don’t know crap about computers.” She leaned back and scanned the large window that opened into Williams’ living room. The lights were on.

“When did you think of this?”

“While they were stitching me up,” Jane whispered. “This is awesome. He lives in a corner apartment. That means more windows.”

“I must say, well done, Jane,” Edmund said admiringly. Jane’s instinct was to shush him again, but she quickly changed course and smiled in spite of herself, then gently raised a finger to her lips. She turned her back to the wall and rose slowly. She scooted silently up to the window, and turned ever so slightly to cast a momentary glance into the living room.

“What’s he doing?” Edmund whispered up to her. He didn’t dare to move from his spot unless it was necessary.

Jane looked annoyed. “Sitting on the couch,” she mouthed back to him. “Eating pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“Yeah, it looks like tapioca.”

“That’s . . . a bit boring, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jane admitted, realizing that she hadn’t anticipated that her targets may not be cooperatively photogenic when she wanted them to be.

“Look, I’ll go back to that tree over there,” Edmund told her. “I can keep a better watch and I’ll wave to you if he does something.”

Jane nodded. Edmund stayed crouched and awkwardly moved across the lawn to the Jacaranda tree. Its branches had only tiny purple buds on it, and the slim trunk offered little chance for concealment. But no light fell directly toward the tree, and leaning up against it was better than simply standing in the middle of the lawn should the LAPD happen to patrol by. But his plan was to wait for a few minutes, tell her that their mark had finished his pudding and gone to bed, and persuade her to come back home. With any luck nobody would ever find out about this madness.

The two of them stood in silence for nearly ten minutes. Williams finished his pudding, and then reached for another container. He smacked and slurped at the spoon, his mouth hanging open as he ate. Watching the man eat was beginning to nauseate Edmund. But then Williams rose, grunted and moved over to the bathroom door. Edmund waved at Jane, who instantly snapped to attention.

“He’s gone to the toilet,” he called out to her.

“Shut up!” she hissed back, then waved at him to hustle around the corner of the building.

An air conditioning unit was placed against the wall, just underneath a window placed high on the wall.

“That’s got to be the bathroom,” Jane said, trying to remain calm amidst the hurry. “Get the video camera out of the bag.”

Edmund reached into the bag and produced a handheld digital recorder.

“Now climb up there,” she ordered Edmund. He looked at her incredulously. “I can’t,” she reminded him, indicating her arm.

Edmund stepped up onto the air conditioner. “Now what am I supposed to do?” he asked her.

“Look and see what he’s doing.”

Edmund folded his arms and stared at her. “Absolutely not.”

“Ed, come on. Just do it. Do you want to waste the trip over here?”

“He’s in the toilet. What do you think he’s doing?”

Jane gave him a stony stare. He turned, resigned, and leaned up against the wall. He raised himself on tip toe and looked through the window, which was wide open. He quickly retreated. Williams was facing the mirror, but a quick glance to his left and he would have spotted Hollywood’s top screenwriter playing Peeping Tom.

“Is he in there?” Jane mouthed at him. Edmund nodded. “Then film him,” she insisted.

Edmund puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled with exasperation. “This is stupid, Jane. We’re going to be arrested.”

“Not if you do it quick. Now go.”

He pinched he bridge of his nose for a moment, then raised up on his toes and hit record. Edmund attempted to brace himself so that he could leap down quickly in the very likely event that he should need to. The camera shook for a moment, but he forced his hand to steady to keep the camera from clattering against the window frame.

Williams was jiggling slightly as he stood in front of the mirror. He was humming to himself as he brushed his teeth. He scrubbed and spit, scrubbed and spit.

Boring, Edmund thought. Waste of time. Worst idea since I let my mates talk me into that pub crawl when we were at University.

And then Williams started to sing.

“If you want my body, and you think I’m sexy,” he grunted.

Edmund jolted to action, tightened his grip on the camera and zoomed in. The angle wasn’t ideal, as the small window was just for venting moisture and was placed high up toward the ceiling. But there wasn’t an insect screen, and the room was brightly lit. The large mirror above the sink provided a reflection that the lens wouldn’t otherwise capture.

“If you really need me just reach out and touch me, come on honey tell me so-hooooo,” Williams went on as he flossed his teeth. He kept singing as he removed his shirt, revealing several love handles and dense fur on his shoulderblades.

Edmund couldn’t believe his luck. He dared to push the camera just a bit farther into the window.

Williams kept singing as he popped out his contact lenses. And then he began to pick his nose. He dug deep as he continued to sing, flicking the boogers into the sink. Edmund gagged slightly, constricting his throat to avoid making a sound. But he held the camera steady. Williams continued to jiggle, pick, and flick as he danced.

And then, as Edmund adjusted the camera so that the lighting balanced perfectly, Williams dropped his trousers and sat on the toilet.

© 2009 Stella Quinn