She slung a tentacle over the pole that held the string of lights and managed to hold on for a long moment. As I watched from the light booth, I was amazed to see that she continued her monologue hanging upside down:
"... being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wondering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air ..." The words cut off as she fell into the orchestra pit. I winced, as she bounced once -- no, twice. It was a good thing that I had decided not to use live music, I thought.
Romeo looked around, not sure how to ad-lib himself out of this one. I thought that he looked relieved that her 250 kilos hadn't landed on him.
I made my way back stage, terrified. This wasn't good. If the show flopped, I wouldn't get paid. If I didn't get paid, I couldn't afford to get off of O'Goora, this no-nothing, loser of a planet. I had almost managed it three years before. I was rehearsing what I thought was going to be a tremendous hit. The play Equus was right up the O'Goorasian's ally. Large O'Goorasian actors play telor beasts that get maimed and some of the other lead characters strip right down to green scales. The play had it all. Opening night, my lead caught the Tesian flu and we were forced to cancel the show. After that, my career as a director on O'Goora was pretty pathetic.
Orgla was sobbing backstage. I had cast her as Juliet, because for an O'Goorasian, she was young, not more than a hundred years or so. I was shocked when I saw her. Her color, normally green, was orange. I couldn't remember if orange meant pain, rage, or embarrassment. Perhaps it meant all three. Even after being on the planet for six years, I still wasn't so good at figuring out which color meant what.
"Ghhah, ghhha ..." she said.
"Are you all right?" I asked, patting her tentacle, and already knowing the answer.
"Noooo!" She snuffled, shaking her great transparent, orange head.
She was holding one side of it. Some green matter oozed out.
"Well, the show must go on," I said, hopefully. They took her away in an ambulance. The audience shuffled off, unhappy that the fun was over and generally surprised that the fall hadn't been part of the play.
The rest of the actors packed it up and went home.
I sat stewing in Orgla's dressing room when Jordaf showed up.
"Director, we must cancel de show," he said, sitting his massive seven-foot bulk into Orgla's ornate chair. I shook my head at him, as I tried to figure out what his colors meant. His scales, a bright, reddish-green color, could indicate anger or maybe just unhappiness.
"No, Orgla's okay," I said, trying not to sound too desperate.
"I says that Orgla not gonna be okay," shouted Jordaf, showing his two layers of sharp teeth." Okay, I thought. Reddish-green definitely meant anger.
"You say we had hit with this play. Jordaf spend lots of credits on set and costumes." Jordaf leaned over so that I could smell his fetid breath. "Alan owes Jordaf." Jordaf's reptilian-like yellow eyes blinked at me. Owe can mean so many things to an O'Goorasian. A horrific thought came to me. I might become the O'Goorasian's dinner. After all, he might consider that a fair deal.
"Well, um, I could bring in the understudy," I said.
"Understudy?"
"Yeah. She's been standing in the wings just waiting for Orgla to get sick."
"Understudy not on payroll," said Jordaf, suspiciously.
"Yeah, I know. Her contract says that she only gets paid when Orgla bites the dust and she goes on stage to perform."
"Ah, contract!" His eyes gleamed, and his scales turned blue. I knew that I was talking his language then. Producers all spoke the same language, no matter what planet you were on.
"Yeah, she'll be great! I'm sure that she'll be up to speed tomorrow night, no problem." Jordaf was pacified. I shook one of his tentacles before he left.
I looked over at Orgla's great mirror. I hadn't realized how shaken I was. My face was a chalky white, a stark contrast to my dark beard. I sat down in a small chair that fitted my 5'11 frame and put my head in my hands. I didn't have any understudies. I could have, but I had decided to save the money. Going home was one thing, but going home in style was quite another. I figured with the money that I saved I could travel first class. It now looked uncertain that I'd make it home at all.
I sat up, reaching into my pocket to pull out the small com-cone. I stuck it into the port, thinking that Orgla had a pretty nice dressing room. Not too many of them came with com-ports. I punched in my email number.
"You have one message, delivered on Sunday, May 4, at 8:00 IPT. Sent by Annie Gates, New York City, Earth. COD." Great, I thought. Big producer and it's going to cost me. Credits on delivery, my ass. I reluctantly punched Receive and Annie's face popped up on screen.
The O'Goorasian screen was large and Annie's sharp features filled the screen. Her blond hair was arranged tightly in a bun. The bright red chopstick holding the bun together stuck out far, disappearing off of the screen. I couldn't see what she was wearing; it was some off of the shoulder thing. It must be cut low, I thought. Cut very low. I really had to get home.
"Stephen, darling!" She said, her voice sounding syrupy and sweet. I sighed heavily. She always over did it.
"I thought I made it perfectly clear in my last message." Her bright red lips pursed together tightly when she said "perfectly."
"If you don't make it to New York within the next month, I shall have to choose another director. Oh, and I really do want you, you do know that darling? You're the best. Ta."
"280 credits have been charged to your account," said the computer, in its smug, tinny voice. The screen went blank.
Well, she really wasn't begging me to come and direct her show. But being asked twice by Annie was close to it. I had to get home.
The next night, the theatre was full. From way above the stage in the light booth, I caught glints and flashes of tentacles and teeth in the audience. Larn the techie was sitting at the board, obviously enjoying himself. He was very amiable for an O'Goorasian, and hadn't minded staying up with me all night to set up the holoactor. The glob of synth was the most difficult part to put together. Larn had mixed it just right. You couldn't see any of the synth, because the holoactor reflected off of the moving blob perfectly.
As the show started, I sat with the script in hand. I knew all of Juliet's lines, but didn't want to chance it. As Juliet made her first entrance, I took a moment to admire Larn's skill. I didn't think anyone would know that Juliet was just a holo projection of an O'Goorasian. He had done such a good job; I could see some of the members of the audience consulting their programs to determine who the actress was. The play was going well and I wasn't messing up any of the lines. I was delighted that as I said the lines, the words came out of the holoactor's mouth. It was like listening to my own voice when I was about nine.
During intermission, I went backstage. Romeo was sweating, his large green mass giving off an unpleasant odor.
"Good Juliet," he said, smiling, his white sharp teeth gleaming. I nodded. Romeo was being very polite. Actors usually hated working with holoactors.
The audience had loved the sword fights, as I knew they would. They had enjoyed all of the thunderous bodies of the O'Goorasian actors bouncing around the stage. That was why I'd picked the play in the first place.
It was almost the end of the play. The Juliet holoactor was lying on the tomb, her tentacles draping gracefully over the stone. Romeo was lying dead next to her. The holoactor at this point was supposed to rise up, see that Romeo was dead, and then kill itself. After a few long moments, I looked over at Larn. He was sweating.
"What's wrong?" I asked, first making sure that my mike was covered.
"I don't know!" he said. "The holoactor's not responding." I turned off my mike as I looked down at the audience, only to catch Jordaf staring up at me. His eyes glinted and he looked hungry.
"Uh oh," said Larn.
"What?" I asked, looking at the stage. The holoactor was expanding. "What's it doing?" I asked, trying to keep the sound of panic out of my voice.
"Jordaf must have gotten this holo equipment cheap. And like I said last night, it's pretty old, too," said Larn.
The holoactor was rising up and up, like a large helium balloon. And then it exploded. The pink slime from the synth-material went everywhere, covering the stage. Romeo jumped up roaring, and dashed off left stage. The audience members in the front row were covered with the stuff. And then the applause, and rumbles, and growls of appreciation started. I looked down at the audience, amazed. They loved it. It was a big hit. Larn reached out a tentacle to me and I shook it. As I looked out onto the stage, some of the actors gingerly walked out to take their curtain calls, trying to avoid the slime. Romeo came out last, smiling magnificently, as he wiped the pink slime off of his scales with his tentacles.
Sometime later, Jordaf sat in my small office. He was leaning back in his chair, looking rather smug.
"Dis Shakespeare thing you got is one big hit," he said.
"Yeah! Larn's putting the new holoactor together," I said. "It's a good thing we've only got a one-week run! He's not going to get much sleep this week."
"One week run?" he asked as he reached into his robe and pulled out a small com-cone. "You not read your contract," said the O'Goorasian.
"What?" I said.
"Look at de contract," he said smugly. He reached over, sticking the com-cone into the port. He pointed to the tiniest of print on the screen.
Squinting, I read: "The Director agrees that should the play be a success (as determined by the undersigned Producer), the director is required to stay for the length of the play's run. (The play's run to be determined by the undersigned Producer.)
I stared at him and swallowed hard. "Well, it can't be a long run, can it?"
"Your life-span is short for a biped. How long could it run?" The O'Goorasian shrugged, his tentacles bobbing up and down, and then smiled, his sharp teeth curling out from under his lips.
END
About the Author: Although Brenda Chapman has sold a number of
nonfiction articles to a local newspaper, this is her first science fiction
contest entry and the first science fiction she's had published! She holds a degree in Theatre Arts from San Francisco State University, and lives in Tucson, Arizona with her son Patrick. They spend many hours hiking, reading, and enjoying the sun together. Brenda works as a manager of a technical publications department in the computer software industry.
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