Script: Space Gibraltar

SPACE GIBRALTAR

A play for radio by Lobby Derkins

FX: Calm, futuristic synth music with spacey whooshes, continues throughout narration

NARRATOR: I’ve been fascinated by Space Gibraltar ever since I was a little girl. The first time my dad projected his map of the Intergalactic Federation onto our shuttle walls, I pointed to that tiny Earthling enclave on the edge of the Andromeda NE stellar stream, surrounded as it was, and still is, by peaceful member states of the Federation. 

He told me what little there was to know about it: it was an outpost on a small asteroid originally established during the first manned Andromeda probe mission; it had stubbornly refused to deal with its friendly neighbours and integrate into the Federation. Its few hundred inhabitants insisted on sticking rigidly to Earth customs and methods of cultivation, in spite of its vastly different environment. Even more bizarrely, Space Gib attracted much local interplanetary ridicule due to its old-fashioned governor’s insistence on wearing socks over his space suit during military parades. 

FX: Burst of high-pitched alien laughter over a military marching band

As the years went by, I would search the intergalactic press for news about Space Gib, the most noteworthy of which was when it offered sanctuary to the notoriously elusive tax evader Sir Duke, although his whereabouts remained unconfirmed. 

Other than that, news from Space Gib was scarce. It was still officially an Earth colony, although the last shipment of cigarettes and confectionery was sent there several years before I was born. Benign local observers had occasionally raised concerns about Space Gib’s wellbeing, but any efforts to contact them were met with hostile warning shots fired by the colony’s only ray gun, affectionately nicknamed the peashooter by Andromedans.

FX: single zap of a ray gun

Fast forward to this time last year when I was doing my national accountancy service: I was perusing a list of proposed cuts to the intergalactic travel budget, when much to my astonishment I discovered that Space Gibraltar’s colony status was up for reconsideration. Given my knowledge on the subject, I naturally volunteered to be involved and, to cut a long story short, landed the job of going out there alone to evaluate the situation, despite my inexperience at hyperspace travel. 

What would I find on Space Gib? Was there anyone left alive there? Would they be hostile or happy to see me? What had become of the tax-dodging Sir Duke, did he ever make it to the asteroid? These were the thoughts going through my mind as I prepared for hyperspace.

If you’ve never travelled hyperspace, it’s hard to describe but it’s a similar sensation to spontaneous human combustion - and I was only travelling 2.5 million light years; god knows how anyone manages to go long distance. 

FX: violent, pulsating electronic sound of hyperspace travel, screams

As I approached the asteroid, a drone was sent to escort me into a bay at Space Gib’s dilapidated docking station. The governor had sent a small reception delegation to greet me on arrival; their immediate concern seemed to be whether I had brought any tobacco with me. I had nothing but two sticks of chewing gum to offer, which caused all but one of the delegation to trudge off in disappointment. I was then taken to the harbour sick bay for a routine examination…

FX: small room ambience, papers shuffling

DOCTOR (cheerfully): Well everything seems to be in order, no signs of hyperspace stress as far as I can tell. You’re the first patient I’ve had from elsewhere - we don’t get many visitors here, as you’re no doubt aware. I just need to take a few details: do you suffer from epilepsy, diabetes, heart conditions or any allergies?

ME: I’m allergic to gooseberries, but that’s it. 

DOCTOR: Never heard of them. Very good. And what medication do you take for depression?

ME: None: I don’t suffer from depression.

DOCTOR: Interesting… and why is that?

ME: Why? I’m not I sure I understand.

DOCTOR: There must be a reason you feel you’re not depressed.

ME: There is no reason, I just happen not to be depressed.

DOCTOR: I see. Would you describe your state of mind as euphoric?

ME: No, not at all. 

DOCTOR: Euphoria is often an indication of depression…

ME: I’m neither depressed nor euphoric.

DOCTOR: Ah, so you suffer from apathy, a lack of desire…

ME: No! Look, I don’t suffer from any mental complaint.

DOCTOR: There’s no need to raise your voice, madam. You appear to have aggression issues.

ME: I’m sorry, I wasn’t being aggressive, just a little frustrated that you keep on insisting I have something wrong with me.

DOCTOR: We all have something wrong with us.

ME: No we don’t.

DOCTOR: We do here.

ME: Are you trying to tell me that everyone here is depressed?

DOCTOR: Of course, it’s natural. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

ME: And you’re all on medication.

DOCTOR: Naturally.

ME: Even the doctors?

DOCTOR: Especially us doctors. We see depressing things in our profession, but the drugs help us ignore it.

ME: Are you sure you should be ignoring depressing things? Perhaps you ought to be doing a different job, one that causes less of an emotional strain.

DOCTOR: Life itself is depressing: we are born to die.

ME: But that’s just the human condition - some things make us happy, other things make us miserable.

DOCTOR: So you do feel miserable! In that case, let me write you out a prescription…

ME: I don’t need a flipping prescription! I’m perfectly happy being miserable some of the time.

DOCTOR: Oh! Please don’t swear or I shall have an anxiety attack! We don’t swear here on Space Gib.

ME: Oh for god’s sake. I can’t believe everyone on this rock is doped up to the eyeballs because they all think they’re depressed.

DOCTOR: They lead very depressing lives here: living conditions are not what they are on Earth.

ME: Well surely there’s your reason for depression: if their conditions improve they’ll stop being so depressed. It sounds like it’s time you all returned to Earth.

DOCTOR (after long pause): Depression is nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t be embarrassed to ask for help.

Spacey music resumes

NARRATOR: From the sick bay I was taken to my living quarters, a 3-minute transit pod ride from the harbour, in order to wash and relax before meeting the governor later on. A young girl with a hairy nose and withered limbs brought me a glass of hot murky water and a jar of sandwich spread; she apologised that the luncheon meat supply had run out years earlier, as had the teabags. 

I managed to sleep a little before being taken to the governor’s office, another short pod ride away. The governor’s office is famous among Space Gibbers for having the only window in the colony…

FX: Transit pod slows to a halt, doors slide open after a beep; footsteps, interior ambience

GOVERNOR (with plummy accent): Ah, welcome to Space Gibraltar! I am the governor, Welland Cheroot. I trust your journey wasn’t too arduous?

ME: It was fine, thanks. I’m very excited to be here.

GOVERNOR: I must say it is an unusual treat for us to meet a fellow Earthling so far from home, not something we see every day. I think it calls for a toast - won’t you join me in a drop of rum?

ME: Thank you very much, that’d be lovely.

GOVERNOR: Splendid. I’m afraid it’s not quite the good stuff, but it’s the best we can muster here. To your health!

ME: Cheers! (sips, coughs and gags) It does have an unusual flavour…

GOVERNOR: Yes, well our crops are not quite up to Earth standards, you see. It’s terrible soil here, barely supports a single potato.

ME: But isn’t this is a very fertile corner of the Andromeda galaxy? They eat very well all over the surrounding asteroid belt. 

GOVERNOR: Oh the aliens around here eat any old revolting muck, they’re worse than the French - I wouldn’t recommend it, not that I’m daft enough to have tried any of it. I’d offer you a cigarette, but we’ve run out of them. Do you mind if I inhale the fumes off a burning rag for a moment? Feel free to help yourself. 

sound of match striking, inhaling harshly

ME: It’s very kind of you but no thanks. So food scarcity is a problem here? 

GOVERNOR (exhaling smoke): We have a few problems with food production due to this wretched alien soil, as I say, but we still have some tinned supplies that our good friend Sir Duke brought with him.

ME: But that was over ten years ago.

GOVERNOR: Indeed it was, as the sell-by dates on the tins keep reminding me, ha ha! 

ME: And is Sir Duke still alive?

GOVERNOR: But of course: he owns everything here, everything and everyone. Without him we’d have starved to death; we owe him our lives.

ME: But if you were running out of food, why didn’t you request help from Earth?

GOVERNOR: We were frightened that if we did they’d send someone like you to check us out, and that you would revoke our colony status if you didn’t think we were coping well enough. We are proud to be Earthlings, we cherish our ties to the old planet.

ME: I see. Governor, may I ask why, if the food situation is so poor here, you’ve refused help from the neighbouring Federation states?

GOVERNOR: Refused help? I don’t know where you’ve got that fanciful notion from! Those bloody Martians are after the few measly scraps we have left - you just can’t trust them, believe me. You’d have to live here to fully understand: this is the frontline, old girl, not dear old gentle Mother Earth.

ME: In that case why haven’t you requested to be sent back to Earth?

GOVERNOR (growing impatient): And give up our land to those treacherous aliens? It’s all very easy for you to say as a space tourist, but this rock is our land, the land our grandfathers fought for! I can promise you right now that there isn’t a single Space Gibber who’d abandon their home for those savages to ransack. 

ME: Well then I think your relationship with Earth needs reassessing - the current situation is certainly untenable. We can’t spend any resources, however small, on maintaining a moribund colony that will never sustain itself.

GOVERNOR: Our relationship does indeed need reassessing: Earth needs to start pulling its weight and send the supplies it owes us for heroically defending its spot, or else we shall have to resort to action…

ME: How absurd! What can you possibly do to Earth? 

GOVERNOR: Keep you hostage until your government sees sense, that’s what. Guard, seize her! (snaps fingers)

NARRATOR: The ‘guard’ was a frail, bony old lady with a face full of liver spots in an improvised wheelchair; she wasted no time in squirting bleach in my eyes before I even had time to scoff at the lack of threat she presented. 

FX: sound of a bottle squirt, shriek, scuffle

She bundled me into a small room next to the governor’s office, which I realised was a toilet as soon as I regained my eyesight. I banged on the walls and yelled while they ignored me. 

FX: sound of muffled banging and shouting

After a few hours, the governor slipped a rag and some non-safety matches under the door for me, in case I wanted to smoke and reconsider my position. Eventually I fell asleep…

GOVERNOR (muffled, speaking from behind door): How are we doing - have you changed your mind yet?

ME: Governor Cheroot, this is totally unacceptable. If you continue to keep me prisoner in this toilet, you’ll create a diplomatic incident, and that will hardly do your cause much good.

GOVERNOR: Not if I say you were intercepted and killed by aliens on arrival.

ME: They won’t believe you: the local states are all members of the Federation, we have an excellent relationship with them. 

GOVERNOR: You just don’t get it, do you? Well frankly I’ve said all I can to you - it’s all in the hands of Sir Duke now.

ME: Let me speak to him then.

GOVERNOR: In due course; Sir Duke will see you when he’s ready, he mustn’t be hurried. In the meantime you’ll have to make do with water from the toilet bowl. I’ll leave you another rag - please don’t smoke the toilet roll. 

Spacey music resumes

NARRATOR: I must have been locked in that toilet for at least two days before they came for me. It seemed as though the whole colony had come to make sure I wouldn’t escape, but as it was I was so weak and delirious from hunger they virtually had to scoop me off the floor. I was carried to a transit pod and sent to Sir Duke’s quarters, escorted by the old lady with the bleach spray. I found myself slumped at Sir Duke’s feet as he peered down at me in his crested blazer, white hair coming out of his ears and red thread veins on his nose, still with the haughty air of the big shot he had been years ago before his escape from the law back on Earth… 

FX: interior ambience, footsteps

SIR DUKE: So Mrs ambassador, I take it you’ve been enjoying your stay with us so far. But enough of the pleasantries - I believe we have business to discuss: you’re going to do what’s right and send an official order for fresh food supplies and ammunition from Earth, aren’t you? I know you have the authority to do so. I’ve already written the message, all it needs is your ID confirmation bio-scan.

ME (wearily): And what do I get out of it?

SIR DUKE: We won’t kill you, for a start.

ME: Why should I believe you? You’re not going to let me go back either way. 

SIR DUKE:You can tell Earth your spacecraft is damaged, so you can’t return.

ME: They’d arrange to take me back on the first supply ship. 

SIR DUKE: Fine. It’s your choice, we can kill you now if you prefer. It is a pity to die on an empty stomach though… If you send the order, not only do you have my word as a gentleman that we won’t kill you, but there’s a tin of rice pudding waiting for you with your name on it. What do you say?

Spacey music resumes

NARRATOR: What could I say? He held all the aces - if I refused to send the message and they killed me, the same fate would only await the next person sent out to investigate. I did as I was told and sent the order. 

Even though these bloody-minded provincials were my captors, it was hard not to be touched by their plight: they were deluded, for certain, but not wicked - just desperate. They had been on the brink of starvation once before, and that time Sir Duke had been their saviour with his tinned food from the Old World. They trusted his every action with the innocence of children, but it came as no surprise to me when he disappeared with my spacecraft, never to return again. It was the only working ship left on Space Gib. He even managed to twist his final act of selfishness into a heroic deed by telling them he was going for cigarettes, since we had forgotten to include them in the order. The poor fools even built a statue of him - they presumed he had died a martyr’s death, murdered by aliens on his way to replenish Space Gib with fags. 

The supplies never did arrive. Perhaps Sir Duke played space pirate and intercepted them, who knows? The Space Gibbers think the aliens took it: they are far too conditioned to blame anyone else. I couldn’t send a request for another order, since Sir Duke had taken the only hyperspace messaging device with him, the crafty bastard. 

Now all we can do is sit and wait for the next ship, if there is one, if anyone on Earth is paying attention. 

We ate the last of the tins today. 

Spacey music ends on dramatic chords

                                    END