A Life Spectacular: A LightSide Novel

Dedication

In memory of Jacques.

Note to the Reader

This story contains numbered footnotes/endnotes that can be clicked, tapped or ignored. Of the three options, the latter offers the lowest level of fun, which might appeal to boring people.

Prologue

What’s been seen cannot be unseen, and what’s been unseen cannot be seen.

Like The Nonexistent Observer. He hasn’t been seen since the dawn of time, and he probably won’t be seen after dusk either.

He calls himself The Nonexistent Observer because that’s what he is and that’s what he does. For him, there’s just something about keeping one’s identity straightforward that makes it feel more natural. More ... authentic. It’s something that none of the other nonexistent observers seem willing or able to comprehend, opting to stick with pretentious titles like The All-Seeing Eye, Icon737, or Gertrude.

Now, you’d think if you don’t exist, neither does time, but you’d be wrong. You actually have quite a lot of it on your hands, and you have to pass it somehow. But while the rest of the nonexistent community generally keep themselves busy by observing major events such as supernovas, civil wars, or puppies chewing on a garden hose, The Nonexistent Observer prefers looking at the boring stuff. After billions of years experimenting with various observation techniques, he’s come to the conclusion that it’s far more satisfying to see something happening to the boring stuff than merely getting what you signed up for.

Which is why he’d spent a few months watching a half-eaten Vahltan pie orbiting a blue-and-green planet.

•••

Fortunately the pie – being a pie – didn’t have that creepy feeling it was being watched, nor did it feel any pain or discomfort when it met a violent end against the viewport of a spaceship.

On the other side of the wide, curved glass, Captain Schuk Wozzel’s brown-furred Stortian face carried an expression favoured by most people when a recently well-fed pigeon unburdened itself over their recently well-washed car.

The expression, in turn, carried a touch less annoyance than normal, because the captain had bigger problems on his hands – an odd power surge in Engineering had fried the ship’s shields and sensors, leaving it vulnerable to threats bigger than discarded foodstuffs.

It wasn’t the best situation to be in for the man in charge of the most important vessel in the Charted Universe.

While Captain Wozzel couldn’t do anything about this technical predicament until the engineers located and repaired the cause of the surge, he could do something about the culinary mess staring him in the face.

He was on the verge of summoning a cleaning crew, when his eye caught a partial glimpse of something vaguely familiar in the distance. He leaned sideways to get a better look past the remnants of the now-two-dimensional pie. The object was a small, faint, greenish blur that mushroomed into a big, bright, greenish ball as it streaked towards the ship.

The middle-aged Stortian had often pondered how he’d die one day. Now he knew, and he also now knew which day one day was. But getting confirmation on the time and manner of his demise wasn’t as fulfilling as he’d imagined it would be.

Despite knowing it was too late, Captain Wozzel spun around to scream an order to his crew, but didn’t get further than Take evasiv— before he was silenced along with the rest of the souls on board. One of whom was the most important person in the Charted Universe. Or, at least, he had been.

•••

Of course, The Nonexistent Observer knew nothing about the ship or its occupants, nor did he really care. But as an enormous disc of green fire blasted debris far and wide into the cold vacuum of space, he couldn’t help but think that this incident might just be the start of something ... unpleasant.

A more informed, caring observer would have thought that, in all probability, there would soon be hell to pay.

Chapter 1

Somewhere in Johannesburg, a mind felt something was wrong.

To assist the mind in shedding some light on the matter, a hand pulled down a duvet cover that looked like it’d been trampled by a herd of startled cows. The face unveiled wasn’t handsome but, in fairness, it wasn’t ugly either. On balance, it was pretty average-looking, albeit slightly more on the opposite side of pretty – the dishevelled brown hair and bloodshot brown eyes did little to tip the scales in the desired direction.

The eyes stared fixedly at the ceiling as the brain started to boot up. It was a slow process.

As awareness started trickling in, the first thing Guy Leatherman realised was that it was Tuesday, and even though no particular day of the week would have had him jumping out of bed with wild abandon, Tuesdays were lowest on his list of days to love. It wasn’t just the fact that a Tuesday was the most unimpressive day of the week, with its wow-factor count of zero. No, it wasn’t just that.

The big problem with Tuesdays was that, just over three decades ago, Guy’s dreary existence had been inaugurated when his mother pushed him out on a Tuesday; five minutes before Wednesday. Wednesday was his least disliked day, mainly because it meant that Tuesday was over and he had the maximum number of days left before encountering the next one.

He tried to decide whether it was worth going to work, but he was just an employee, and employees like him weren’t really entitled to make such decisions.[1]

This gave rise to the second thing Guy realised; something was indeed wrong. He glanced at his alarm clock and immediately identified the source of his unease. Leaping out of bed, he hurriedly performed the early morning rituals to make himself look and smell reasonably decent. Then, grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter, he locked the front door and rushed to his car. But despite his efforts, he was going to be late for work. Again.

•••

Guy snuck into his cubicle, situated in the corner of the local newspaper’s small editorial department, praying that his late arrival wouldn’t be noticed. However, as with all his other hopes and prayers, this one received the DENIED! stamp. As soon as he sat down, a voice pierced the air with a firm Guuuuy!!!, followed by the all-too-familiar sound of a door slamming.

Guy warily approached the door above which the letters E-D-I-T-O-R were displayed in white on a black Perspex sign that had seen better days as well as better editors. Jane Harding wasn’t a woman to be trifled with. Not that Guy ever trifled with anyone, but Jane would look for trifle if there was any to be found and would make some if there wasn’t.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly opened the door and stepped into the office with an awkward smile. This was a mistake; Jane hated smiles. The only times the editor ever smiled herself was when she was crushing someone’s soul or privates. Although she had never physically done the latter to Guy, he still felt a pain in his mid-region whenever she chastised him for something. Which basically made it a chronic pain.

In contrast to her intimidating physical appearance, Jane had an extremely high-pitched voice, like a pig whose leg was being amputated with a cheese grater. Although, like Guy, a pig would probably rather have had its leg amputated with a cheese grater than listen to Jane’s ranting.

You’d better have a good explanation! she squealed, tapping at her wristwatch.

Guy thought it better not to risk the merry Hi there! with which he usually greeted people to make himself sound more cheerful than he actually was.

Hi, he said instead. I ... well, you see, traffic was a bit hectic this morning, and then my car overheated and—

Do you take me for a fool, Mr Leatherman? Jane interjected with an eyebrow raised like the curve of a question mark, rounded off by the hairy-mole-dot below the eye.

No, Guy muttered.

"I thought so. And do you know why I thought so?"

Er ... no.

"Of course you don’t. You’re too stupid to know anything. Your little brain will never be able to fathom why your empty little life isn’t worth the paper your birth certificate is printed on. You’re a pathetic loser who’ll never achieve anything in life. And do you know why? I’ll tell you why ..."

Jane was a master at ripping people apart. For most people, this type of personal hammering would have been enough to knock them down a deep hole of depression, but not Guy. He was already at the bottom of that hole, and had been for some time.

However, while the majority of what Jane said was true, he didn’t need reminding, so he simply let the words roll over him like lava off a duck’s back.

When he eventually trudged out of the Devil Editor’s office, Guy was waylaid by Jane’s annoying nephew, Patrick, who had just found a potato in the bag of potato chips he’d bought. He looked really upset about it.

"I mean, a whole potato! the young man griped at Guy’s desk. If a whole potato could slip through, what else have we been eating without knowing it?"

Half potatoes? Guy ventured flatly.

Patrick’s eyes narrowed. Are you mocking me?

No, er, of course not. I’m sorry, you have my full attention, Guy said, and scribbled some boring notes on his notepad while the man concluded his horrible ordeal.

You will run it in this week’s paper? Patrick asked in a way that sounded more like a demand than a question.

Normally, Guy would never have considered publishing such drivel, but seeing as it was Jane’s nephew, and seeing as his day with Jane had already started off on the wrong foot[2], he continued to write the best story he could about something that, for him, turned the word trivial into the understatement of the year.

Chapter 2   

Traffic. No one living in the countryside could ever fully appreciate what it’s like being stuck in heavy city traffic. Not that anyone living in the city appreciated it either.

Except maybe for Neville Andersman, Guy’s traffic-cop friend who had a sick fascination with all things traffic. And the busier, the better. Bumper to bumper is best, was Neville’s motto. He excelled at upholding the laws of the road and punishing those who didn’t. He truly enjoyed his work, and although Guy couldn’t understand how someone could be so keen about traffic, he envied his friend for having such a passion for his career.

Along with many other things, passion was something that had never quite made it into Guy’s emotional repertoire, and the little bit he possessed was barely enough to rival an eggplant’s passion for quilting. Which was probably the main reason he didn’t enjoy life as much as he should have.

A few months earlier, Guy had decided it was time for a change. Drunk and depressed, he’d sat outside a pub, looked up at the black canvas with the white dots above him, waited for the stars to stop swimming around, gave up on waiting and wished that he could experience something new in his life. Something ... fun. Especially something he could share with Neville, as Guy was too skittish to experience fun on his own.

Not surprisingly, his wish hadn’t come true, which was why he was now stuck in the same old car in the same old traffic with the same old worries. Thankfully, he’d soon be home to put this miserable day to bed along with himself. At least, that was the plan.

Glup ... glup ... glup ... blup ... blup ... blup ... blrrrrrrr ... glup ... blrrrrrr ... bsssshhh!

Cars have a way of stating certain things in a way you don’t want to hear.

Great, just what I need! Guy cried, punching the steering wheel with his fists, but not too hard, as his fists weren’t used to punching.

Pulling to the side of the road in a cloud of steam, he got out and marched to the front of the tennis-ball-coloured jalopy. He lifted the hood and was greeted by a bigger cloud of steam. When it cleared a bit, he took a closer look.

Yep, it was just as he suspected: he still had no clue what went on in a car’s engine.

Berating himself for becoming a second-rate journalist instead of a second-rate mechanic, Guy dropped the hood just as a marked traffic patrol car pulled up behind his stricken vehicle.

Need a hand? asked a familiar voice.

Neville!

In the flesh, said the caramel-skinned traffic officer as he got out. Taking off his sunglasses, he strolled over to his stranded friend.

How are you doing, bud? he added, eyeing the steam wafting from the car’s grill.

Guy shook Neville’s hand. Same as usual.

That bad, eh?

Yeah.

Want me to have a look at it?

I don’t think it will help much. I could use a lift, though.

No prob, Neville smiled. Don’t worry about your car. I’ll take care of it.

"And I’ll pick you up for work in the morning," he added before the expected question could be asked.

Thanks, Guy said as Neville called in some favours on his handheld radio.

When he was done, the officer gestured towards his patrol car. Shall we?

Guy grinned. Ladies first.

Ooh, you’re so kind, dear sir, Neville said in a feminine voice accompanied by a rough curtsy.

With a chuckle, Guy got in the passenger seat. You’re a good friend, Nev.

Can I have that on paper? Neville said as he settled behind the steering wheel.

No.

Thought so.

The patrol car sped off in the emergency lane with its lights flashing. Although Guy couldn’t really complain about his turn of luck, he also couldn’t trust it completely. As an ardent pessimist who knew that positive things never happened to him without him paying for it later, he wasn’t looking forward to the immediate future.

Chapter 3   

Back home, Guy donned his blue cartoon pyjamas depicting a familiar black-and-white cat chasing a small but clever yellow bird. In the kitchen, he constructed an impressive club sandwich that didn’t have much time to bask in its own glory before being chased down by a cold beer.

There wasn’t much on the tube, so Guy kept changing the channels relentlessly until he found something to watch, which turned out to be the things he always watched. He just started to drift off when a sudden flash of light, followed by a loud clap of thunder, left the house enveloped in darkness.

Wonderful, he said glumly after ascertaining with relief that his heart was still beating inside his chest instead of his throat.

He got up and made his way to the kitchen using Braille navigation; a journey that included a stubbed toe and a blow to the shin. With all his hopes of immortality crushed by his furniture, Guy finally made it to the cupboard containing the candles and matches. After lighting one of the old-school sources of light, he tried flipping the circuit breaker’s main switch back to the On position. After several failed attempts, he surrendered to the harsh reality that the power might be off indefinitely, which meant no more television.

This posed a problem, as the thunder had thwarted his plans to visit la-la land; a fact that was proven half an hour later after a bout of useless tossing and turning in bed.

Lighting the candle again, Guy picked up the used book he’d recently acquired from the flea market. It was the inspirational The Best of Me, written by a well-known banker who claimed that anyone could achieve the goals they set for themselves by tapping into the willpower lying dormant deep within them. It usually knocked Guy out fast.

It must have worked, because he was awoken from the world of dreams by a strange light. As he pried his eyes open, the book was lying cover-up on his chest, with the banker giving him an upside-down million-dollar smile. Guy squinted at his mechanical alarm clock, whose luminescent arms stated it was just before twelve. The power still seemed to be out, because no light filtered in through the drapes from the street lamps outside. But the light had to come from somewhere. He glanced at the candle, which wasn’t producing any illumination either; only a thin wisp of smoke drifted up from the wick. But no draught could have killed the flame, seeing as all the doors and windows were shut.

He just started contemplating stopping at the pharmacy in the morning to pick up some flatulence medication, when the source of the illumination became evident: an eerie, pulsating white light with a soft blue hue framed the closed door of his walk-in closet. This was odd, as there had never been a light in the enclosure; at least not one that actually worked. He’d been meaning to replace the bulb but had never quite found the willpower to do so. If the banker had known how deep and dormant Guy’s willpower actually was, his smile would have remained in a permanent state of upside-downness.

What the ...? Guy said.

Putting the book aside, he got up for a closer inspection of the anomaly. He didn’t learn much, and then realised he might learn more if he actually opened the door. Which, to his surprise, he did. On the face of it, the light that hit him seemed bright enough to blind a mole. But it was strangely pleasing to the eye, even hypnotically inviting. His mind tried to warn him that flames were also fatally inviting to moths, but he was too tired to listen properly.

He was about to walk in, but froze, thanks to his inherent inability to tamper with the status quo. Especially when the status quo was – like now – that he was still alive and well. He came to a mutual agreement with himself to return to the safety of his bed. Then a part of him, a part he never knew existed, broke the agreement by forcing him to shrug, grumble Stuff it!, close his eyes and step forward.

The light enveloped him like a tingly cocoon.

It felt like a second.

It felt like a lifetime.

It felt ... surreal.

When things started feeling real again, Guy pondered whether he should open his eyes. He did, and regretted it instantly as a yellow beast in a top hat grabbed him by the shoulders and hoisted him up, growling.

Chapter 4   

With all the strength he could muster, Guy managed to struggle free from the creature’s grip and stumbled backwards. Gravity lent a hand by pulling him down hard on his backside, sending up a cloud of blue dust. In normal circumstances, he might have found coloured dust strange, but the yellow-furred creature advancing on him with saliva dripping from its sharp fangs made any twists in his surroundings seem somewhat insignificant.

What wasn’t insignificant, however, was the urge to get the hell out of there, wherever the hell there was. For a moment, Guy’s legs didn’t want to cooperate with his mind, but when the creature’s large, hairy claw reached for him, cooperation was quickly re-established. Guy retreated hastily in semi-crab-like fashion and was on his feet, running, before he knew it.

Whatever the purpose was of the huge domed chamber he found himself in, he couldn’t care less. The important thing was that there was an exit, and he made a run for it. Outside, it was dark, except for the light of the two moons shining brightly above. Again, his mind tried to tell him something, but adrenaline was blocking his ears as he quickly put some distance between himself and the now-roaring creature behind him.

Although surprised at the speed with which he bolted across the dark, unfamiliar terrain, Guy felt the energy rapidly seeping from his system. His lungs started to burn, but his legs refused to stop their forward momentum.

As he reached the top of a long, gradual incline, the outline of a building gave him hope. He doubled his efforts and dashed through a doorway in which a metal door hung open loosely. He would have kept running if it hadn’t been for the dark shape he’d just run into, causing him to bounce back gracelessly. For the second time, Guy found himself on the floor. Exhausted, he barely managed to raise his head to identify the object that had brought him down. A pair of eyes opened, glowing amber in the low light.

What are you doing out here? he heard, or rather felt, a voice reverberating inside his head.

As the huge shape bent over him, Guy’s mind and body ceased their newfound cooperation once more, and everything went dark.

•••

Guy opened his eyes and decided he should really stop doing so. Staring at him was an eight-foot-tall beetle-like monstrosity with four arms. Its dark-brown hide bore intricate beige patterns that curved and spiralled all over its body except for the bark-like shell on its back. The cone-shaped head, carrying two large, dark, bulging eyes on the sides, was quite small in relation to the rest of the body, and was nearly split in two by a wide, lipless mouth. There wasn’t any sign of ears or a nose, although Guy fleetingly wondered if the two small, sunken holes beneath the mouth fulfilled the functions of the missing facial parts. As a matter of fact, all his thoughts came fleetingly, especially the ones relating to why the heck he was here and what the heck was looming over him.

"Firstly, I don’t know why you’re here," a voice said in Guy’s head as the creature folded both pairs of arms, "since you’re supposed to be training. Secondly, you must have hit your head pretty hard to forget your good pal, Cortex. And because I’m your pal, I suggest you get your butt back to the dome before Rimmy gets upset. You know what happens when he gets upset."

Er, you can ... read my mind? Guy said with a mixture of surprise, astonishment, fear, confusion and intrigue, as well as a mixture of other things that desperately wanted to escape the confines of his stomach.

"Of course I can read your mind. You know I can ... oh yes, sorry, I forgot how much you hate it when I do that."

Uh ... Guy said.

It’s just ... well, I just can’t help myself sometimes, you know?

I’m dreaming, right? Guy breathed.

No, you’re not, the creature named Cortex said with a feel of impatience. Seeing him speak was odd, especially as he did so without his lips moving. "You are, however, supposed to be practising. Rimmy won’t be happy that you’re skipping a session."

Despite the bug’s assurances to the contrary, Guy still wasn’t sure if this was all part of a dream or in fact real. But he thought it best to go with the flow, as he didn’t really have any options open either way.[3]

Um ... what am I supposed to be practising again? he said.

How about all those looking-to-break-your-neck stunts you’re so proud of? Cortex said. You should really cut back on the heroics. You’re becoming more ruthless and – dare I say – more egotistical by the day.

Er, sure, Guy mumbled as he noticed a cracked mirror affixed to a nearby wall. Getting up, he nervously approached it, had a look, and gave himself a fright. While this had happened before, at least it had been in his own body, which this most certainly wasn’t.

Staring back at him was a short creature with red skin, which was mostly covered by a tight, lime-green bodysuit that looked like a hideous cross between a wrestling suit and a wetsuit. It looked extra hideous on his scrawny body, and the elongated hands and feet didn’t do his overall appearance any favours. At least the suit complemented his big, lime-green eyes, which stood out like gems against the redness of the skin. His topknot of wiry, medium-length hair was green too, albeit a shade darker. It fountained up from the centre of his otherwise smooth scalp like the leaves atop an underfed, sunburnt pineapple.

Using the narrow mouth on his narrow face, Guy flashed himself a grin, but quickly unflashed it to hide teeth that would have been perfect for the before photo in a dental-reconstruction magazine. Above his thin lips, a long narrow nose flared out wide at the tip, and as he leaned a bit closer to the mirror, they appeared to have cigarette butts stuffed into them. When he tried to pull at the substance, his eyes started to water profusely. It clearly wasn’t a good idea to do that – just like it wasn’t a good idea to pull his nose hair, which apparently this was.

What in Zolt’s name are you doing, Bezam? Cortex asked.

Bezam? Guy said with tear-filled eyes. "That’s my name? Bezam? What a stupid name for—" he trailed off as he noticed Cortex’s blank stare.

"You did bump your head, didn’t you?" the bug said, now with a feel of concern.

No ... uh ... I don’t think so.

Well, I’m not taking any chances. You’re going to see Kola, just to be on the safe side.

Without warning, Cortex hoisted a protesting Guy onto his rough-textured back. Stop complaining, Bezam. You’re in no condition to be on your feet. There’s something wrong with your head. It’s like you’re not yourself. You feel ... different. Kola will know what to do.

Cortex was right about one thing; it didn’t help to complain, because his tight grip held Guy firmly in place as he hauled him outside into the breaking morning light.

Chapter 5   

Guy stopped struggling when his eyes got distracted by the odd surroundings. The bug carried him over a sea of neon-green grass and blue soil. At least the sky was blue too, but the clouds had a tint of green in them as they periodically passed in front of the three suns above. Such a landscape might have caused many people to fret a bit, but as Guy’s alive-and-well status quo wasn’t exactly threatened by blue soil and multiple suns, he forced himself to relax.

The flat terrain at the foot of the hill they descended was dotted with small, multicoloured domes surrounding a gigantic orange dome; very likely the same one he’d escaped from earlier. Except for the colours, the structures reminded him of those round parachutes he’d seen in old war movies.

Reaching one of the smaller domes on the outskirts of the settlement, or whatever it was, Cortex halted. The surface of the red dome seemed solid on the outside until it ripped into the shape of an arch big enough for them to pass through. Guy couldn’t see a zip or any other kind of fastener as they entered through the flaps, which closed up and solidified again as soon as the bug carried him inside.

"Wa makeer om?" a voice said.

Don’t know, Cortex said as he lay Guy down atop one of the two gurney-looking beds in the middle of the room. But he’s acting very ... strangely.

A pink furry creature, similar to the one that had stormed at him earlier, suddenly bent over Guy. And because having a large, fanged creature in his face did not fall within acceptable status quo parameters, Guy started screaming in panic.

Ho om vas! the creature shrieked and hurried from view as Cortex pinned down Guy’s squirming body.

When it returned, the pink beast pressed a gun-like device against Guy’s right shoulder. After a brief tsssh, a sudden wave of euphoria swept Guy’s panic off to another beach.

Cortex and the creature stepped back, staring at Guy in the same way art critics must have stared at the first Salvador Dalí painting. When their shapes started swimming before him, Guy’s head fell back on the pillow, and it only took a few seconds for his eyelids to become too heavy to keep open. His mind took this as a sign that it wasn’t needed at present and deemed it a good time to take a break.

•••

Opening his eyes, Guy felt the ritual urge to relieve himself of certain bodily fluids. He also felt somewhat woozy.

Sitting up, he shook his heavy head. What happened?

You have been sedated, a voice said in his head. It almost had the same feel to it as that of the bug mind-reader.

But as Guy looked up, he found himself facing a creature similar to those in that science-fiction television series about the two FBI agents investigating extraterrestrial phenomena – or in most similar shows and movies, for that matter. Neither agent would have been impressed by the yelp Guy gave as he stared into the large, black eyes staring back at him. They also wouldn’t have been impressed by the volume of dark liquid streaming down Guy’s leg. Or maybe they would have. Whichever, he didn’t have to go anymore.

Chapter 6   

"That was not very polite," the creature transmitted as he/she/it shook his/her/its scrawny feet alternately to shake off the liquid that had formed a large, dark pool on the floor where he/she/it stood.

The classic-looking grey alien was quite short, and would barely have reached Guy’s hip, had Guy been human and standing upright. But even in his new, shorter body, Guy was almost a head taller than the creature. It had big, dark eyes but only two small holes for a nose, and not much of a mouth either, with really thin lips that could have been used to slice ham really thin. It also had grey, hairless skin pulled tightly over the bones underneath, without much visible muscle to fill the spaces in between. It did, however, have a substantial belly; the type that should rather be covered by a loose shirt. The being, however, wasn’t covered by anything. Fortunately, its naked body featured no visible genitalia, which was sure to be a huge advantage if its feet ever slipped off the pedals while riding a bicycle.

With a sour look, the creature stomped out the doorway, which was soon filled by another shape.

What happened here? bellowed the pink creature from earlier, eyeing the puddle on the floor in a way that could not be described as pleased.

I, er ... wait, I can understand you, Guy said, perplexed. Although, judging by the creature’s tone, body language and scowl, he wasn’t sure if this was a good thing.

"That’s just wonderful! it said. Then understand this: if you ever take another leak on one of my medical beds, I’ll make sure you’re never able to take one again. Got it?"

With extensive Jane-training, Guy knew this was no time to argue, so he just nodded nervously. The creature looked at him sternly for another second before its face softened.

Oh, yes, sorry, it said. "Apologies for snapping at you, Bezam ... I mean, um, Guy," it added, frowning. It seemed to roll the name around in its mouth, only to find that it tasted a bit off.

"Who