by Zen DiPietro
Onscreen, a pretty Garbdorian shows the way through the ship, stopping in all the notable locations to explain the amenities and services available. She looks vaguely familiar but I can’t figure out where I might have seen her.
“A benefit of being a guest of the Chance Fleet is that we include boarding privileges at all of our ports along the way. Depending on your route and destination, you might have the opportunity to enjoy sightseeing at a variety of planets and space stations.”
I pause the stream. She freezes in place, smiling at me. I study her, from her pale green hair that hangs in a chin-length bob, all the way down to her surprisingly sensible shoes. She could almost pass for a human, except that her golden-tan skin has a gentle luminescence, which quite literally gives her a glow. But who is she?
I’m certain I’ve never met her in person. And though she’s pretty, she doesn’t have the jaw-dropping looks of a movie star, so I don’t think she’s an actress.
After staring at her face for a few minutes, I give up and let the tour conclude with a look at the pub conveniently located adjacent to the dining room. Like I need some drunken idiot spilling his beverage on the floor and creating a slip-and-fall hazard. No thank you.
The Chance Fleet logo flashes on the screen, accompanied by a jingle about comfort and quality. So far, so good. I only hope this ship continues to live up to that promise.
My bladder tells me that I can no longer put off venturing out of my cabin. With a deep breath, I open the door to whatever mayhem might occur on a starship.
I peek into the corridor before stepping out. It’s empty. I hope to attend to my needs and get back to my cabin before boarding is complete. Once the Second Chance is full, I’ll be crossing paths with all manner of people.
Along the way, I notice a sign that says, Beware of invisibility. I try to figure out what that could mean. None of the currently-known species are capable of invisibility. Thank goodness. I have a complex about invisible forces. But by this point, I’m sure that’s no surprise to you.
The water closet is just where Gus had described, and I’m pleased to find no one inside. I walk into a stall, then realize with a sinking sensation that it hadn’t occurred to me to research precisely how to pee in space. The facilities do not remotely resemble those on Earth. In front of me I have an alarming amount of hose attached to a sort of seat that juts out of the wall.
I face the contraption. The alignment seems iffy, so I turn around. That seems like a way worse idea.
As I turn to once more face the disturbing apparatus, my eye catches on a diagram located at forehead level on the side wall of the stall.
I proceed to study a series of stick-figure representations that I know, right then and there, will forever change how I look at the universe. I can’t tell if they’re depicting what to do or what not to do. The illustrations grow increasingly disturbing, and each one only mystifies me further. One in particular leaves me feeling vaguely victimized.
Clearly, this facility had been created with numerous species in mind, and its engineers had attempted to create an evacuation system that could not only accommodate these differing physiologies, but could also perform in a potentially zero-G environment.
The diagrams are situated from left to right and bottom to top, so that by the time I discard several of the increasingly perplexing images as flat-out anatomically impossible, I have to hop to see them. Given that my bladder is near to bursting already, this creates a supremely dicey situation.
Finally, desperation gets the best of me. I yank the end of the hose from the wall, lean in, and let go, praying that I’m not peeing into some other species’ sink or something.
My relief afterward is so great that I sag against the wall.
When I imagined the dangers of interstellar travel, I hadn’t even considered the risk of difficulty with such basic needs. What else had I failed to anticipate?
I walk away from the water closet feeling the same as I had when I was eight and a classmate had explained to me where babies came from: confused and embarrassed and wishing I could return to my previous state of innocence.
I had intended to return to my cabin to order some room service, but if I keep walking, I’ll end up in the pub. And the pub now seems like where I need to be. My nerves are on edge and a carefully measured dose of alcohol will smooth them out just a little, and leave my reflexes no worse off. It’s early enough that the pub shouldn’t be too busy, or have customers who are already getting sloppy.
On Earth, if you go to the bar, you sit on a stool and a well-groomed bartender will say, “What are you having?”
On the Second Chance, the bartender is a seven-foot-tall Mebdarian with pink skin. A mutant, apparently. Systems with a lot of natural radiation tend to have a higher incidence of children who develop mutations. Instead of asking me what I’m having, she points at me and says, “Backdoor Special.”
Oh god, does she know what had happened in the water closet?
But then she faces the other direction and reaches for a bottle. Some sort of furious activity ensues, almost like a vicious struggle but with only one person. Then she turns around and slaps a glass down in front of me. She watches me expectantly.
It’s a big glass. About twice the diameter of a regular drinking glass, and just as tall. Inside, a neon orange drink fizzes. No straw, no ice, no little umbrella. Just a big-ass drink and a giant pink woman waiting for me to try it.
Using both hands, I tip the glass toward me and take a sip. Bright citrus flavor bursts on my tongue, acidly tart yet sweet, with a fruity sort of alcohol flavor.
“Delicious,” I say.
The bartender nods in satisfaction. “I have a knack for picking drinks for people. So I do.”
Who’s going to argue with a seven-foot mutant?
A new voice comes from behind me. “Best drinks I’ve ever had on a starship. I take the Second Chance just for the pub.”
I probably look stupid staring at the newcomer, but it’s the girl from the lightstream tour, live and in person. Her skin has that same luminescence in person, and it’s kind of dazzling.
She gives me a little smile that tells me she probably gets this reaction a lot. “Plus, the fact that I fly free for being a brand ambassador. But I’d pay if I had to.”
She sets her empty glass on the bar and pushes it toward the bartender. “Another one?”
The pink woman reaches for a bottle and another struggle ensues as she prepares the drink. It’s hard not to stare in fascination.
But I also want to stare at the green-haired woman. She still seems familiar somehow.
She accepts her freshly-made drink, which is spiked with an extra-long purple straw, and she takes a long taste.
“What is it?” I ask. The color of the beverage is ghastly. A gray-green pus sort of color.
“A Thunderstorm. Smoke-infused Garbdorian gin with a hint of lime.”
I don’t care for the sound of that. I’ll stick with my Backdoor Special, however unfortunate its name.
I want to ask her questions, but fear coming across as a rube.
She smiles and extends her hand. “Greta Saltz. I take it you’ve seen the tour on the lightstream?”
“Charlie Kenny.” I intend to say more, but the bartender leans toward us and it’s awkward not to include her in the introductions. “And you are?”
“Call me Pinky.”
I really don’t want to. If I call her that, and then she calls me something based on the way I look, it could become a whole thing. I do not want to have a thing with someone who is seven feet tall.
Greta seems to understand my concerns. “Pinky’s the best,” she assures me.
“Well it’s nice to meet you, Pinky, and you too, Greta.” I look around the pub. “It’s nice and quiet in here.”
“It’ll be busy once we leave the space dock, and then stay busy until we get to the next one.” Greta leans back against the stool next to me. I’d never get away with a precarious le
an like that. It would be so easy for the stool top to shift and dump me right on the floor. At best, I’d bust my ass, but more likely, I’d break my neck. I envy her devil-may-care attitude toward secure footing and balance.
I turn back to my drink, only to find Pinky has leaned way into my space and her face is only inches from mine. I pull back and almost fall off my stool.
“You’re a jumpy one, aren’t you?” Pinky asks, not withdrawing one bit.
“Ah…” I stammer like an idiot. I’m not making a good impression on Greta, I’m certain. But I’d rather take the blame for being jumpy than accuse Pinky of not understanding the personal space requirements of an Earther. “I guess so. It’s my first time in space.”
Greta smiles and I know she understands my predicament.
Pinky nods. “Everyone has a first time. You stick with Pinky. I’ll look after you.”
I’m not sure whether to be alarmed or comforted, but Greta tips her glass at me. “Lucky you. Pinky likes you. She picks her friends carefully.”
“Well, then I’m honored.” I offer my hand to my new pink friend.
She stares at it like I’ve offered her a dead mouse. “Put that away and drink your Backdoor.”
I do as I’m told.
Rather than edging away with an increasing air of revulsion, Greta gives me some amused side-eye.
I take a gulp of my drink and decide to push my luck. “When I was watching that virtual tour, I felt like you were familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why.”
“I’m a brand ambassador for a number of companies. You’ve probably seen me doing infovids or something.”
“Oh. That makes sense. So that’s what you do for a living?”
She makes an airy gesture with the hand holding her drink. “More or less. I travel around a lot, doing contract work like that.”
“That sounds exciting.”
Her smile turns wry. “Sometimes. Other times it’s tedious. But we all have to make a living. What do you do?”
“I’m a statistician.”
“Really?” Instead of looking bored or suddenly uninterested, she appears intrigued. “What do you calculate?”
“I do regression analytics to determine past behavior, in order to predict future behavior.”
“Like for advertising?”
“Sometimes. Other times it’s to analyze general behavior patterns for other marketing purposes, or for improving public services.”
“Wow. It must be really interesting to find patterns in what people do.”
“I’ve always thought so,” I agree. “Though it seems dull to most people.”
“I think it’s great.” She stops leaning and sits on the stool facing me. “Much more interesting than showing a camera around a ship or telling a large assembly about a new variety of banking options.” She takes several gulps of her Thunderstorm.
I want to ask her why she does it if she doesn’t like it, but that’s too personal. A lot of people work the job that’s available to them, rather than the one they’d prefer to do. Instead, I make a vaguely agreeable sound and work at emptying my giant glass at least halfway. I worry that if I don’t drink most of it, I’ll insult Pinky. And I don’t want to find out what Pinky does to people who insult her.
A silence falls between Greta and me as we sip our drinks. Not the uncomfortable oh-shit-what-do-I-say-now kind. Just kind of a mutual contemplation. Somehow, this makes me like Greta far more than idle chitchat would have.
Pinky claps a plate on the bar in front of me, and another in front of Greta. “You two should eat before the crowd comes in and it gets too loud to hear. I ordered you both a Pinky Surprise. On the house.”
“That’s very generous of you,” I say, though I’m a little afraid of what the surprise might be. “Thank you.”
Greta murmurs her thanks as well. Her response leads me to believe that Pinky regularly keeps her fed.
Saying that the sandwich could have fed me for two days is no overstatement. It’s fully eight inches tall, and alongside a pile of what appears to be some sort of breaded and fried vegetable.
I peek at Greta to see how she handles the mammoth. She casts me a sidelong glance and winks. With her palm, she smashes the thing down, reducing its height by a good two inches. Then she picks up a steak knife and cuts it into nine segments.
I follow suit and find that a mere one-ninth of the sandwich is fairly manageable, though I have to gnaw at it like a rat rather than take what I’d consider to be normal bites. But whatever. When in space, do as the space-farers do.
My first bite comes as a surprise. The sandwich is delicious. Some sort of salty synthetic meat layered up with fresh vegetables on a brown bread. It’s all brought together by a creamy sauce that reminds me vaguely of mayonnaise and dill, combined with licking a battery that has both charges on one end. Zingy.
Two sections of Pinky Surprise and a few of the fried things later, I’m stuffed. I get through half my drink and am trying to figure out how to break it to Pinky that I can’t finish it all when Greta says, “I think I’m going to avoid the crowd and duck back into my cabin. Mind if I get this to go?”
Relieved, I say, “That sounds like a good idea.”
Pinky sweeps up both plates and my drink. “You bet.” She retreats to the back side of her workspace.
“She seems really great,” I say to Greta. How I’ve lucked into meeting two genuinely nice people, I have no idea. But every normal distribution has outliers, statistically speaking.
“She’s the best.” Greta smiles and slips off her stool just as Pinky returns. She takes the square takeout box that Pinky slides across the bar to her. “Well, goodnight, you two. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”
I pick up my own takeout container and the to-go cup that still holds a whole lot of Backdoor. “I hope so. It was great meeting both of you. I was worried about this voyage, but so far so good.”
They both smile, and I walk back to my cabin feeling encouraged. It’s a strange sensation, but pleasant. I hope I’m not setting myself up for disaster by letting myself enjoy it.
Loud knocking wakes me. I slept well and it isn’t too hard to rouse myself. When I’d returned to my cabin the night before, I’d been surprised to find that my room had been reconfigured for nighttime, with the bed folded out and fresh linens impeccably smoothed over it. The brochures hadn’t mentioned this attention to detail, but I like the feeling of being looked after.
On bare feet, I take three small steps to the door and push the button for the callbox. “Yes?”
“It’s Gus, Mr. Kenny. I’m sorry to bother you, but you didn’t register your desired time for reveille service.”
“Oh.” I slide the door open. “I’m sorry. There are a few things I haven’t quite gotten the hang of about this kind of travel.”
Gus stands at the door, bright-eyed and impeccably dressed in his fancy steward’s uniform. He hands me a bag and I realize it holds my clothes, which I’d sent out the night before for laundering. “Do you prefer a later waking call, or would you rather have no waking call at all?”
“Uh, I can probably do without it. Thank you.”
“Of course, Sir. Do you wish to return to bed, or shall I continue with your reveille service?”
I don’t want to make him come back later. I’m sure he has a lot of better things to do. “Now is fine.”
“Very good.”
I squeeze myself into the corner and he enters my cabin, where he proceeds to efficiently reconfigure the bed into a table and chair and wipe the surface of the lightstream. After this burst of activity, he steps back, apparently waiting for something. Am I supposed to tip him? It’s an archaic custom, but maybe I should. On the other hand, if I do and it’s the wrong thing to do, it might mark me as a rube. I already know how he feels about rubes.
I hedge by asking a question. “Gus, I noticed a sign down the hall, near the water closet. It said Beware of invisibility. What does that mean?”
&nbs
p; “That’s just a reminder to open doors slowly. Some species startle easily.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
Silence falls between us again. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” Gus prompts.
“Oh! No, everything’s great. Thank you, Gus.”
“Pleased to oblige. Let us know if there’s anything we can help you with. Breakfast is underway in the dining room, if you’re hungry.”
Surprisingly, I am. “I could use something to eat. Thank you.”
Speaking of food, I managed to put the rest of Pinky’s sandwich and drink into the pulper last night. Fortunately, there’s one at the corridor junction just past my cabin. The recycling vac is right next to it, so I was able to dispose of the containers too. I feel a little bad about throwing the food away, but there’s no way to keep it fresh in my cabin, and it’s better for Pinky to think I enjoyed all of it. She’s been so nice and I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
Thanks to a little research via the lightstream, I approach the water closet with more confidence this time around. Turns out I’d gotten it mostly right on my first attempt. I’d only failed to set the evacuation unit to a sanitation cycle to prepare it for the next user. Which means I’d been one of those jerks, but it won’t happen again.
Still in my pajamas and carrying the bag with my clothes down the corridor, I proceed to do what I consider to be a phenomenal job of taking a shower like a pro.
It helps that it isn’t much different from a shower on Earth, and that I was smart enough to research it before giving it a whirl.
I dress and put my pajamas in the laundry bag, then send them for cleaning. The attendant tells me they’ll arrive with my evening bed service (which sounds like something more exciting than it is, but it’s still kind of nice in its own way).
Right. Breakfast then.
My recent small successes and pleasant surprises all sink down to my toes as I enter the dining room.
So. Many. Forks.