Chapter 11: Supernova Surfing
By DC Green | 25 January 2010
Page 1 of 3
Daphne Grrng, Ripaquikbong head honch, held up her muscle-knotted demon arms.
The Ripaquikbong team – me, Catbird, Hackfin, Stuntman and some rookies even greener than me, like X’zx’zqx and Doris Grrng – fell silent.
Daphne stared through the omniglass floor. We all stared. Sprinkles of light marked the cities of the grey planet below. Daphne gurgled, ‘Planet Roddenberry has no oceans. No wave pools. No rivers.’
Bjorn Cyborg scratched his antenna. ‘Then how we making surf war?’
Daphne’s eyes fire-danced. ‘In 2.75 days, Roddenberry’s orange dwarf star will supernova. For you morons, that means, ‘Sun go boom!’ The outer layer explosion will expand through this solar system, incinerating everything.’
My words tumbled out. ‘But the cities down there–’
‘Are toast.’ Daphne shrugged. ‘Worm-train tickets sold out within seconds – mostly bought by off-world apocalypse-tourists. Every rusty space-ship on Roddenberry has long since been patched up and blasted off. Do not pity the four hundred million losers left behind. Low-ranking Deathstar employees, they have free tickets to witness the most spectacular cosmic show this decade.’
‘But they’re all gonna burn at the show’s climax!’ I blurted. ‘We could pack thousands on this space yacht! Do multiple rescue trips– ARRGH!’
Sensing criticism, company nannites microwaved my brain. I writhed on the omniglass.
Daphne sighed. ‘In 2.7 days, you must surf across space through a field of space-mines and shattered asteroids. So you have .05 days to reach your destination: the worm-train station on Roddenberry’s ‘protected’ side. There, every contestant will find a dimension-jumping belt programmed to zapp them to the next contest planet, via the fifth dimension. Simply strap on and press the red button – before the ultimate solar flare barbecues the neighbourhood!’ Daphne grumbled smoke. ‘Such a brilliant marketing ploy... Curse Deathstar.’
‘How do we surf across space, Aunty?’ asked Doris G.
Daphne clicked her claws. A droid-rack of space-wetsuits rolled out. She clicked again. Out rolled a droid-quiver of toe-controlled space-surfboards with rockets instead of fins.
‘Crutches for the breathing.’ Missile-bodied Hackfin snorted. Catbird kicked her space-suit. ‘I’m not competing!’
I scratched my head and pretended I didn’t have a boner straining at my space-boardies. ‘But you’re coming second on the ratings!’
Catbird grumbled, ‘That just means Darth Staker will kill me, same as he killed Dolphin Bloke, Kang McTube and all the other now-dead surfers when they were coming second!’
‘But you jammer-thingied Darth on Planet Macho! That was so cool.’
Catbird pouted. ‘Shut up and stick your tongue down my throat, or I’ll hit you with a fur-ball!’
A good enough reason, so I obliged. Stitches popped on my boardies.
Annie whooped into my room. ‘Doc Duck says my new intestines are guaranteed for 100,000 meals. And I can