Pew! Pew! - The Quest for More Pew!

by M. D. Cooper

  I change into my pajamas, then convert the table and chairs into my bed. I lie down and enjoy the sensation of a full stomach, a cabin that still smells delicious, and the lingering magic of Greta’s presence.

  ***

  The next day, I am looking forward to visiting Perabo and seeing what the artist colony has to offer.

  On the other hand, I have great trepidation about the elevator experience in getting there.

  As Greta, Pinky, and I board, I’m tense with nervousness.

  Welcome to the Chance 3000: A new experience in elevators.

  I groan, bracing myself.

  Now descending.

  What? Greta and I blink at each other. It can’t be this easy.

  We descend smoothly and without interruption. No weird jokes, no threatening to return to the top, just a simple ride down.

  As we step off at the bottom, I look back at it, half-expecting something dramatic to happen. It doesn’t.

  The ship has put us down at edge of the main thoroughfare. Each side of the street is lined with festive little shops. Some have wind chimes or streamers that flap in the gentle breeze and they range in color from sedate beige, which has a particular appeal for me, to a brilliant chartreuse that makes me a little nauseated.

  I’m attracted to the little beige store, which is shaped like a little domed hut. “Should we start there?”

  Pinky shrugs and Greta says, “Sure, why not?”

  It’s a tidy, spare little place. Even Pinky has room to maneuver without worrying about knocking anything over. The shelves along the walls are lined with small driftwood carvings.

  “How cute!” Greta points to a seagull that somehow appears to be smiling. “He’s so cheerful.”

  “A Cheerful Seagull would make a good drink name, don’t you think?” I say.

  “I think so. I’d try one.” Greta sidesteps, scanning the shelves.

  “It could work,” Pinky says. “Sounds like it would be a tropical drink. I’ll think about it.”

  “You could invent the next big fad,” I suggest.

  Pinky likes that idea. I can tell. Her frown is more Hmm than her usual I enjoy smashing things look.

  We find many pleasing carvings, but none of us appears to be in the market to purchase one. I prefer not to own much, and surely whatever Greta wants magically appears when she wants it. At least, that’s how I imagine it.

  The next few shops are brightly colored and sell an assortment of decorative bottles, wall-hanging wish charms, and hand-painted miniature ships. All very interesting, but nothing I need.

  I’m keeping an eye out for Mr. Renard’s shop. I don’t know where it’s located, but each time we approach a shop, I hope this will be it.

  Not this time. But Greta’s delighted to have arrived at the glassblower. We don’t even notice the goods on display because we’re immediately entranced by the master herself at work. She’s rolling a long stick back and forth, back and forth over her work surface. At the end of the stick is, what I presume, a blob of molten glass.

  I can’t even count the number of ways I’d injure myself with that.

  Just to be safe, I stand behind Greta as we watch. When the master gets the glass to where she wants it, she puts her mouth to the end of the long stick and blows. The bulb expands slightly. More rolling.

  Apparently, rolling is a very important part of this process. The master inserts the glass into a container on the floor that has a star-shaped cut out. She blows into the stick, and when she pulls the glass out, it’s now elongated, and has ridged sides.

  Now that’s cool.

  Pinky isn’t as fascinated. She’s moved off to study the completed works on display.

  “Charlie, which one do you like?” She’s standing next to a collection of large sculptures.

  Greta remains, watching the glassblower, and I join Pinky. In front of me are representations of an ocean wave, breaking high with lots of white foam, an octopus with dozens of tentacles, a ballerina, and a flower.

  “The wave,” I answer. “It’s looks natural and fresh and free.”

  “Me too.” She holds up her hand for a fist bump. “I’m going to check out the next place.” She lowers her voice “Glass doesn’t do much for me.”

  “Okay, we’ll catch up in a few minutes.”

  Pinky makes a hand sign that I interpret to be something akin to rock on or a thumbs-up, though on Earth, what she did would be considered a very rude gesture. Especially for Italians.

  Okey dokey. Put that on my list of things that are way different out here in space.

  I return to Greta, who doesn’t appear to have moved an inch.

  She turns to smile at me. “Neat, isn’t it? I like how something can go from being one thing and transform into something completely different.”

  “Yeah, it’s cool. Have you ever bought anything here?”

  She laughs. “No. I spend almost all my time in space. Such fragile, purely decorative things aren’t a good fit for my lifestyle.”

  “What about these?” I direct her to a counter that has a variety of small pendants. “These take up almost no space and shouldn’t be too prone to breakage.”

  “Oh, I’ve never seen these. They must be new.” She leans forward to study them. They’re roughly oval-shaped flat discs with different patterns in them. Some are looping swirls, some seem to have suspended multi-colored pieces inside.

  “Which do you like best?” I ask.

  “They’re all so pretty. How about you pick one for me? I’m sure that one will be my favorite.”

  There must be a hundred pendants. How do I choose?

  I’ll be methodical. First, color. Green appeals to me, because it’s the color of the luck stone she gave me. There’s a reciprocity about that that seems right. Okay, so green. That narrows my choices to about one-fifth of the items. Now I just need to pick the pattern. I think the swirly ones suit Greta.

  I settle on a green pendant with prominent whorls. It sort of reminds me of the circles inside a tree trunk. It feels natural and organic, and suitable for Greta.

  “This one.” I hand it to her.

  “It’s perfect. Definitely my favorite.” She looks so happy, I feel like I’ve performed some major feat.

  “Do you have chains for these?” I call to the attendant behind the counter, but not too loudly because the glassblower is looking very intense about a glowing ball of glass.

  “Yes, bring it over.” He’s a teenager with the good looks of youth. He bears a resemblance to the master, so I wonder if it’s her son. “What length do you like?”

  He shows Greta a variety of lengths, while I go back to the pendants and select a deep blue one with pink swirls.

  While she puts her necklace on, I ask, “How much?”

  “Four hundred, all together.” Before Greta can protest, I whip out my account card, swipe it, enter my code, and it’s paid for. I put the second pendant, which is now on a long chain, in my pocket.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Greta chides me.

  “I know. I wanted to. You gave me my luck stone. Now I’m giving you an adventure necklace. It’s fair, don’t you think?”

  She beams at me. Then she seems to remember something. “Oh! We’d better catch up to Pinky or we’ll never find her.”

  “How could she be too hard to spot? She’s Pinky.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she says.

  There’s a story behind that, I’m sure.

  We find Pinky three doors down, sitting on a bench and eating an ice cream cone.

  If you’ve never seen a large, pink mutant eating an ice cream, let me tell you, it’s entirely delightful. Every now and then, when you think she’s made of nothing but acid and steel, Pinky does something wonderfully endearing.

  “Look what Charlie bought me!” Greta shows Pinky her pendant.

  “Pretty,” Pinky says. “Where’s mine?”

  “Here.” I take the blue one from my pocket and hold it out. “I h
ope you like it. I got the longest chain they had.”

  Pinky stares at me, her ice cream cone held aloft, but forgotten. “Really? That’s for me?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t forget you.”

  She stands and the next few moments are a blur that leave me with ice cream in my hair and a breathless feeling. But I’m pretty sure Pinky hugged me.

  Then she’s proudly wearing her necklace and tossing back the rest of her cone in three bites.

  Which is amazing all by itself, since it was a quadruple-scoop.

  We find Mr. Renard’s shop, and I’m immediately drawn in. There’s a subtle smell in there, like cherry pipe tobacco carried on the wind.

  Then there I am, gawking at row after row of original Renard paintings.

  “Robot western paintings?” Greta sounds doubtful, even though I can tell she’s trying not to.

  “Robot westerns are my favorite movies,” I tell her without looking at her. I have eyes for nothing but all these artworks. Robots having shootouts, robots riding robot horses, and vast herds of robot cattle.

  “Cool.”

  Pinky says, “I like ‘em. Lots of laser shootouts, and all those campy sound effects.” She points a finger at me. “Pew, pew, pew!”

  I adopt a robotic voice. “You’d. Better. Mean it. If you. Shoot. At. Me. I will. Make you. Regret. It.”

  Pinky puts her ‘gun’ into its ‘holster’ and puts her hands on her hips, adopting a cocky swagger. “My targeting programs. Are superior. To yours. You. Will never. Defeat me.”

  We both burst into laughter. Ahh, it’s like being a kid again.

  “I see you two are fans.” Mr. Renard stands before us, and I’m starstruck. He smiles at Greta. “How about you?”

  “Oh!” Greta wears a look of panic. “I…”

  Mr. Renard laughs. “It’s okay not to be a fan. We’re a small club.”

  “Your artwork is wonderfully detailed,” she says. “You make it look just like a scene from a movie.”

  “Thank you. I’m lucky to be able to make a living doing what I love. And that I’ve been able to do it for so long.”

  I know from his biography that he’s sixty-five, from one of Earth’s wine country regions, and one heck of a poker player.

  Not that I’m a fanboy or anything.

  “Which one do you like?” he asks me. He seems to have picked me out as the one wanting to make a purchase. Clever fellow.

  “I’m torn,” I admit. “I love the classic shootout scenes, but I like the more pastoral, ranch landscapes, too. Like this one, with all the spaceships in the background.”

  “Mm. I know what you mean.” He stands next to me, a finger to his lips. “You know, here’s something I think you might like.”

  He takes a painting off the easel and leans it against the wall. Then he retrieves a pastoral scene and puts it up in its place. “See these two? Look here.” He points at the facing edges of them.

  The left is a shootout, the right is a field with a spaceship and a herd of robo-cows.

  “They connect,” I realize.

  “Yes, they’re a panoramic scene, but split into two. They’re kind of a secret of mine. Most customers want a portable size, but my ideas are often much bigger. So I paint the whole thing, cut it down the middle, and frame them individually. I get to paint the big scenes I like, and customers get what they need.”

  “Clever.” I don’t even have to stare at the paintings and imagine them on the wall of my cabin and consider the way the light will hit them or any of that. The prices were discreetly noted below, and though they’re far from inexpensive, I can afford the cost. “I’ll take them.”

  Mr. Renard lights up. “I’m really pleased they’ll stay together. I’ll have my assistant box them for transport and ring them up. Do you want to come back for them?”

  “That would be great. We still have some exploring to do.”

  Mr. Renard nods. “Good, take your time. Make sure you visit the bargain shop at the end of the row. You never know what you’ll find there. For a lot of people, it’s their favorite place on Perabo.”

  “We will. Thanks.” I want to linger, but it would be weird. “We’ll be back in a couple hours or so.”

  “Like I said, take your time.” Mr. Renard waves to us.

  Now what? I feel like the high point of this trip has already happened, but I try to be game. I’m still here to have a nice day with my friends.

  “What would you like to do next, Pinky?” I ask.

  “I wouldn’t mind another ice cream cone,” she says, sounding hopeful.

  “Sounds good to me. Greta?”

  She smiles. “Sure, who doesn’t love ice cream?”

  “Glavadroxavarians,” Pinky answers. “Wicked lactose intolerance. You do not want to be anywhere near that.”

  Lactose. Right. “So, can a Garbdorian get drunk on ice cream?” I ask Greta.

  “If they have enough, sure. But the sugar and other carbohydrates weaken the potency. Kind of like drinking alcohol on a full stomach for you.”

  “Huh. Okay.”

  In the ice cream shop, I’m bewildered by the vastness of the selections. There are twenty-eight flavors that can be served alone or mixed in combination with one another. There are four types of cones, waffle bowls, and plain old cups. The topping options look like a candy factory exploded.

  It’s a lot to take in.

  Greta decides quickly on a blueberry double-scoop cake cone with no toppings. Pinky takes time weighing her options, which I wouldn’t have expected since she just had an ice cream. She chooses a mere triple-scoop of lushfruit and chocolate, mixed together. Plus rainbow sprinkles. I wouldn’t have pegged Pinky as a rainbow sprinkles kind of girl.

  I take the longest to decide.

  “A vanilla double-scoop waffle bowl, please,” I say.

  Greta groans. “Noooo, don’t get him that. Wait one second, please.” She flashes the scoop-guy with a blinding smile and he looks momentarily stunned.

  She says, “Charlie, is vanilla really your favorite? Because if it is, that’s fine.”

  “Not really,” I admit. “It just seems like the safest bet. The least likely to be gross or to have choking hazards in it.”

  “What sounds like it might be delicious?” she asks. “Pick something you’d really like to try.”

  Old habits are hard to break, but she’s right.

  “Okay.” I look at the scoop-guy. “I’ll take a double-scoop of Death by Chocolate in a waffle bowl.”

  “Wow, that even has the word ‘death’ right in it. Nice job, Charlie.” Greta hits me with one of her megawatt smiles.

  Even Pinky seems pleased.

  It’s just an ice cream order, but I feel pretty proud of myself.

  We go outside to the benches and find Waldorf there, finishing off a sundae. He drops his bowl and spoon into a recycling kiosk.

  “Hi, Waldorf!” Greta calls as we approach. “How was your ice cream?”

  The old man considers. “I got peach passion, and I’ve had better. I didn’t taste much passion. Though it did have a good peachy flavor, so I guess it was kind of good. And I liked how creamy it was. So, yeah, great ice cream! Glad I came!”

  His rapid turnaround has me puzzled, but Greta is unperturbed. “I’m pleased you liked it. Where are you headed next?”

  “Just to the pillow shop, then back to the ship. I’m getting tired.”

  “Have a good time!” Greta turns her attention to her cone, which is on the verge of dripping.

  “You too, my dear.” Waldorf waves and walks away.

  We take our time enjoying our ice cream.

  “Where should we go next?” Greta asks.

  “I think the bargain shop,” Pinky says. “It’s my favorite. You never know what you’ll find there.”

  “Okay. I like that one, too.” In a blatant disregard for protocol, Greta takes a bite of her cone, even before she’d eaten her ice cream down to that point.

  She’s su
ch a rebel.

  Waldorf comes back into view, looking disgruntled.

  “What’s wrong, Waldorf?” Greta asks. “Did something go wrong at the pillow shop?”

  “How did you know I was at the pillow shop?” he demands. “Are you following me?”

  Greta looks gobsmacked. “No! I—”

  He cuts her off, “And don’t call me Waldorf! I hate when people call me that!” He stabs a finger at her, and then, for good measure, at me, and Pinky, too. He stomps off in the direction of the Second Chance.

  Pinky just keeps eating her cone, but Greta looks amazed. She hasn’t entirely adapted to the twists and oddities that fate sends my way.

  “I’m so glad you two saw that,” I say.

  “Old fella’s one planet short of a solar system,” Pinky notes. “That’s sad.”

  “I didn’t realize.” Greta frowns. “I’ll make sure the porters know, so they can make sure he’s properly looked after.”

  She’s a good brand ambassador, that Greta.

  We finish our ice cream with subdued small talk. Afterward, we head to the bargain shop.

  It’s larger than the other stores. Six or seven times larger, with rows of haphazardly arranged goods. Smiling cloth dolls stand next to military surplus weapons belts.

  “Ooh, look.” Pinky grabs a belt and slings it around her waist. She jams a pair of dolls into it, one on each side. Adopting a robot-western voice, she says, “Draw. You lily-motherboarded. Virus-laden. Scoundrel!”

  I look to Greta. She hands me a belt. Okay, fine. I put it on. Greta arms me with a pair of dolls.

  I say, “I. Will draw. When my subroutine. Is triggered.”

  We stalk around each other robotically, our hands brushing our weapons.

  Pinky dashes down the next aisle, out of sight. I wheel around and rush to the opposite end of the aisle. I peek around the corner.

  No Pinky. Where did she go?

  “Gotcha!” Her voice is behind me. How did she do that?

  I turn, but she already has dolls in her hands. “Pew pew pew!” She points the little smiling faces at me in rapid succession.

  I must play the part that has been laid out for me, in long-standing robot western tradition.

  I clasp my chest. “Oh! My central processing unit. Has been. Compromised.” I stagger, falling back against a shelf. “Deactivat….ing.”