Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space (31 page)

‘Strap me up, strap me down.’

‘It’s “tie me up, tie me down,” you moron.’

‘Who cares. I just dig all this bondage and discipline.’

‘Speaking of.’

Captain Qwerk had finally worked out that he could get through God’s tollgate by unloading his new sense of humour. Now, followed by his crew of borgs and bots, he was making a final inspection of the saucer before its ejection from Pop, which was docked in lunar orbit close to Mum. The aliens were already harnessed to their seats though, as Qwerk passed by, they clicked open their seat belts, let down their tray tables, and tilted their chairs back just to annoy him. Qwerk knew the routine. He passed them in dignified silence and entered the cockpit.

The saucer was a later model than Galgal, larger but sleeker. Ptui! Pop spat out Boyboy like a watermelon seed.
Ziiiiip.

‘Getting hot.’

‘World’s biggest vibro-sauna,’ chuckled a Zeta Reticulan, reaching under his seat for the inflatable vest which Must Not Be Fully Inflated Until You Are Out Of
The Spacecraft. That was another favourite trick, pulling the tabs on the vests, screeching the whistles, flashing the lights. But wait, what was this? Groping around under the seat, he’d unexpectedly found a tiny lever. Naturally, he fiddled with it.

‘Ow!’ cried a Sirian seated across the aisle, clutching his fat head, upon which a dense object had fallen. ‘Ow!’

While the other Sirians fell about in hysterics, an Alpha stretched out a leg and snaffled up the missile with his dexterous toes. ‘Holy Canopus!’ he cried, opening the Hidden Agenda, for that’s what it was. Alphas were the speed-readers of the yoon and, just minutes later, he’d nearly finished it when Galgal angled sharply downwards and began its plummet to Earth.

‘Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!’ screamed the other aliens as high g-forces plastered them to their seats. ‘Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!’

In Washington, within the
CONSPIRASEE
office, a red light glowed and a buzzer honked for attention. General ‘Jackal’ Mikeson hoicked up his big chin and peered out from between his secretary’s legs. ‘Oh my God,’ he whistled, seeing what had appeared on his computer screen. ‘It’s the big one. Off that big fat ass of yours, Herman, and call up the troops. Qwerk’s in town and we’re gonna get his grey ass.’

Qwerk steered the saucer straight to Parkes. Several weeks earlier, the government had cancelled all funding for
scientific institutions. Luella and her crew—convinced they were
that close
to making contact—had been forced to pack up and look for jobs in the wood-chipping industry, the only growth sector of the entire economy.

Boyboy passed low over several country towns in Queensland and New South Wales. As Earthlings pointed and stared in fascination and fright, the Sirians, dressed in their spangly jumpsuits, leaned out of the portholes and shouted, ‘We’ve brought you Elvis!’ Qwerk didn’t have a clue as to what they were going on about, not having seen
Independence Day
himself, but he had too much on his mind to give it much thought.

Parkes wasn’t hard to find—a vast webwork of steel and aluminium rising out of an immense paddock. Its centrepiece was a large white dish sixty-four metres in diameter. When the saucer landed beside the deserted complex, sheep were baa-ing at the unplugged monitors, and an entire flock of galahs was nesting in the dish. There wasn’t a bean in sight.

The girls clearly weren’t there either. Qwerk checked his co-ordinates. He was certain that the message to Pop had been sent from here. Darn. He rifled through the debris at the hastily abandoned scientific outpost for some clue as to where they might have gone. Ah
-hah.

‘We’re off to Sydney,’ he informed the others, fingering an advertisement for
Come to Mothership.
The ad featured a photograph of the Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space. ‘Let’s leave Boyboy here. We can get around easier in Pallas.’ Pallas was a cigar-shaped craft stored inside BoyBoy. Given the right weather conditions, Pallas could pass over Earthling-inhabited zones without being detected until practically the moment of landing.

The babes had insisted on keeping ticket prices for the concert low. The promoters grumbled at first, but when the girls told them that they didn’t want any of the profits, that the promoters could keep the lot, they were happy as Larry. Who was still very, very happy.

Different bands attract different audiences. You wouldn’t confuse the clean-cut disco bunnies flocking to hear the Petshop Boys with the hairy little headbangers who worship Metallica and Twisted Mofo, the beautiful punk girls with their glittery faces moshing for Babes in Toyland with the ponytailed suburban blondes bopping to Le Club Nerd.

But how would you describe, in a phrase, the crowd that was now streaming—pouring, flooding—into the Sydney Cricket Ground for the Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space? There were hippies in tie-dyed harem pants, North Shore boys in boat shoes, hardcore punks with mohawks, dykes in leather corsets and fishnet stockings, kids on skateboards, New Agers with big curly hair, SF buffs in button-down shirts, pretty gay boys, ravers and ragers of every ilk. It was impossible to generalise even in terms of age. There were oldies who hadn’t been to a rock concert since, oh, the Rolling Stones and the Rolling Stones before that, and babies-in-arms who would be told
you were there
when they were old enough to understand it meant something. Many of the punters wore headbands from which bounced two springy antennae, or hand-made t-shirts with slogans like ‘Aliens Rock Harder’. Some carried stick toys with spinning flying saucers on top.

Luella, who was still looking for work, was there with Aubrey, Aaron and Jason. Also there were Zach and the
rest of the team from Kissed for the Very First Time Records (including Mr Spinner), all of Newtown, half of Darlinghurst. There were the Mormons, and the drag queen, and Kya, and Groovy Gregory. Ratface had come down from Byron Bay and, yes, Brian the Bouncer and Shareen were there too. Three had come up from Melbourne and Prik Harness and the Angel Pygar from Canberra. The abductees were there, naturally. And Ebola. George, of course, wouldn’t have missed it for the end of the world.

Qwerk let the others off at the Opera House. He was surprised that they had all been happy to come to Sydney with him. Normally he’d be making dropoffs all over the planet: Moscow so they could play in the subways, Madagascar so they could giggle at the lemurs, the English countryside to do crop circles. But today, they all wanted to come to Sydney. Something about having a picnic at Eagle Rock? Who knows? Who cares? It was a beautiful late summer’s day, the sky was a cloudless blue, the tiles of the Opera House were glittering in the sun, and the harbour was dotted with pretty white sails. If he could just find those little troublemakers, neutralise them, and retake the saucer, well, hey, hey, it was Saturday and Earth would be Qwerk’s oyster.

An oyster’s a slippery thing, however. And if Qwerk had just misspent a bit more of his youth, in fact, if he’d misspent any of his youth, he’d have known something was up. Picnic at Eagle Rock indeed.

The truth of the matter was that the aliens had discovered, courtesy of the Hidden Agenda, what the Nufonians
really wanted to do on Earth. Make it a better place, sure. If your definition of a better place encompassed the notion of a planet without music, without love, without desire. Definitely without rock n roll. These were the prime factors of Earthly chaos, according to the Nufonians. And they were going to eliminate them, one by one, beginning with their own creations, the very musical, very love-making, very desirable and desirous, rock n roll babes from outer space. What they did to Michelle Mabelle—that was child’s play.

Nufonians knew nothing about Eros, of course.

Doll paced the backstage area, waiting for the others to show. Roadies and crew were rushing back and forth, dragging cables here, hauling them there, testing mikes and switches and lights and lasers. ‘We have an emergency,’ she told Baby and Lati when they sauntered in at last. Pulling them away from the hangers-on, promoters and journalists, all of whom wanted just one quick word before the show, she hurried them into the dressing room and shut the door. ‘They’ve caught up to us.’