by Zen DiPietro
She stops wiping the counter and flips the towel over her shoulder. Leaning against the bar, she appears to give the matter deep thought. “You know, I do. Some people say it’s just the massiveness of the universe and the fact that unlikely things—good or bad—have to happen to someone. But I’ve known some people who almost never lose, and others who almost never win, and none of it has a thing to do with how they play the game. It’s just their luck.”
I drum my fingers on the bar, thinking about that. Pinky glances at my hand and raises an eyebrow. I stop drumming.
“Why do you think that is?” I ask.
Pinky shrugs. “Some call it karma or charisma. Or on the unlucky side, they might call it a curse or the evil eye. My people call it kenogu.”
“What does that mean?”
“It translates roughly to ‘shit happens.’ More specifically, it means that you get what you get, and you can’t blame reality for what it gives you. It’s up to you to work with what you have.”
“How do you use that in a sentence?”
She pulls the towel from her shoulder goes back to wiping the bar, which looks perfectly clean to me.
“Your kenogu is being a redshirt. Or, if you were to suddenly fall off your stool and break your arm, you could just say, ‘Kenogu.’ You could even use it as a verb. ‘I’m going to kenogu my way out of here!’ It’s a multipurpose word.”
“Those are the best kind.” I can tell she agrees.
An elderly Martian approaches the bar and orders a half-dozen drinks. I fight back a laugh because that sounds like the opening line to a joke. I look back toward the table and see only one other person. I guess what they say about Martians being drinkers is true.
After the guy takes the tray of glasses to his table, Pinky begins a frenzy of beverage creation. She works four blenders simultaneously, squeezing fruit with one hand while shaking a cocktail mixer with the other, and she practically juggles swizzle sticks and garnishes. Her precision is absolute; she doesn’t spill a single drop. I’m watching a master at work.
Porters come and whisk away the drinks she made. Pinky tosses her towel over her shoulder and rejoins me.
“So…do you know Greta well?” I’m hesitant to ask, but, at the moment, I only have two people I could even remotely call friends. Unless you count Gus. Which I don’t. Getting paid to deliver my underwear every morning does not qualify.
Pinky plucks a straw from the bar and pokes it into the side of her mouth. The protruding part wiggles as she chews on it. “I see her frequently. We talk. I don’t know if that means I know her well. I think you’d have to ask her if I know her well, since only she knows how much of herself she’s revealed to me.”
I hadn’t thought I could be more impressed by Pinky, and here she’s upped the ante again. That was damned philosophical of her.
“Okay. Does she know you well, then?”
The straw waggles wildly. “Fairly well.”
“Do you trust her?”
“With what?”
Pinky’s shrewdness has me examining what I really want to know. I whittle it down to one thing: “Your life.”
I realize that this is the heart of the matter. By asking me to leave the ship with her, Greta had, whether she intended to or not, asked me to put my life in her hands.
And I had. Why?
Greta’s cute, no doubt. Pretty. But not the exotic-vacation-sales kind of beauty that makes a person drain their life savings for a jaunt to Paradise Cove that they never even wanted.
No, it isn’t mere physical attraction. Though I definitely feel something when she touches me. Not in a my-parts-are-all-tingly way, but in a way that makes me feel alive. Aware. Like things I never imagined somehow become possibilities when I’m with her.
Dare I say exciting? Excitement has always been a warning sign for me in the past. A bad thing. Red alert. Imminent death ahead.
But I feel different with her.
I realize Pinky’s staring at me. “What?”
“You asked me a question, then you started staring into space. I wondered if you had a weevil in your brain.”
Is that an expression or an actual thing that could happen? I’ll have to look that up later. And maybe weevil repellant.
No, no weevils. I just got sidetracked by a thought. Sorry. You were saying?”
“I believe Greta has my best interests at heart,” she says. “I don’t expect her to be able to save my life in a battle with a bunch of bloodthirsty blagrooks, though.”
“Uh, do they attack often?” I have a new thing to worry about now. Yay.
“Nah. Only once on this ship.” Her face transforms into smug satisfaction and she takes the straw out of her mouth to point it at me. “I squashed ‘em like bugs. Stupid blagrooks.”
I fight to stay on topic and not get sidetracked by the fact that I don’t know the statistical likelihood of a blagrook attack. “So, if Greta wanted me to go sightseeing with her at the next stop, you think I’d be safe?”
Pinky wads the straw up in her large hand, tosses it into her mouth, and eats it. Is that food to her people, or is she just showing off? “Next stop is Parkorvan. Great place, but it can get dicey if you don’t know your way around.” She straightens with sudden purpose. “I’ll go with you two. Keep you safe.”
I had intended to find out more about Greta, but, somehow, I’ve now made a date with Pinky to play tourist on a planet that could be “dicey.”
What have I done?
Two days of catching up with work for my employer and talking with Pinky at the pub go by quickly, and then I realize the catastrophic error I’ve committed in agreeing to our sightseeing trio.
The problem is that Parkorvan is a university planet. You might think, Cool! Academic types, keggers, and cheap eats aplenty. And you’d probably have a good time there.
But as I step into the brisk breeze, beneath an overcast sky, I quiver with the kind of trepidation a guinea pig would feel when skittering past a pharmacology lab.
Parkorvan isn’t just an academic place. It’s a premiere hub of research. Scientific research. The kind of research that tends to get out of hand, go haywire, and end up turning a planet into a dystopian nightmare. Zombies, maybe. Or a plague. Yeah, a plague sounds about right.
The air even starts to smell a little weird. I’m getting whiffs of—what is that? Eucalyptus. Is there a type of plague that’s heralded by the smell of cough drops?
I shiver.
But as Pinky and Greta steer me down the main parkway, I have to admit that it’s a picturesque place. Lots of people on bicycles. Everywhere I look, I see an abundance of happy-go-lucky young people.
I do not find that the least bit reassuring.
I keep smelling hints of eucalyptus and my anxiety only rises higher. Trying to calm myself, I reason that if there were any reason to suspect a plague outbreak, these nice-looking young people wouldn’t be going about their lives so nonchalantly. Plus, I have Greta’s luck and Pinky’s straight-up badassness with me. I’ll be fine. Right?
I put my hand in my right pocket and rub my luck stone.
I hope no one thinks I’m playing pocket pool.
We walk for what feels like forever. I barely register the expertly manicured green areas and flower beds. I notice some students playing Frisbee and carefully align myself against Pinky so that if a damn disk comes my way, either it will turn out to be a grand prize in some contest for Greta, or Pinky will catch that shit and obliterate it.
I manage to avoid any mishaps, and, finally, Greta gestures at a huge wooden door at the front of a large stone building.
“Here we are!” She seems entirely happy and blissfully unaware of my hypervigilance.
We walk into an old library and, I have to admit, it’s grand. The building has walls that rise three stories high, stacked with books upon books all the way up. I mean actual paper books. I’ve never seen such a thing.
“Wow.” And as genuinely impressive as it is, in the back
of my head, I begin calculating the odds of a book spontaneously slipping from the wall and falling three stories to land on my head.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Greta’s voice is full of wonder and admiration.
I have to admit that it is.
“Pretty,” is all Pinky says. Actually, she hadn’t said much at all since leaving the Second Chance. Odd, since she has plenty to say when we’re in her pub. But that’s probably where she feels most at home. Maybe I’m not the only one outside my comfort zone.
Next thing I know, Greta rushes to a spiral staircase on the far side of the cavernous library and runs up it. I edge up to the bottom of the staircase and look upward at her feet, which are running in circles and carrying her ever higher. She peers over the side of the rail and beckons. “Come on!”
A sign in front of me insists that the staircase is for employees only. I scan the vicinity, waiting for some angry librarian to come mete out some punishment. But nothing. I look at Pinky. Pinky looks at me. Sighing, I grip the rail and carefully step up, slanted stair by slanted stair. Spiral staircases suck. I’m slightly reassured to know that Pinky’s right behind me.
When we finally reach the top, Greta grins at us. “Come on!” she says again, darting ahead.
“Wait!” I call. “You can’t just come up here. We aren’t supposed to be in this part.” This area has a very different feel than down below. A wide, unadorned hallway is punctuated by a series of doors on each side.
“Sure we can. It’s fine. Trust me.”
I want to. I’ve witnessed her luck before, and I really want to trust her. I just can’t. I have too much history. Too much litany of the many Kennys who have died doing the most innocuous things.
But then, a voice inside me argues, if even the most mundane thing can result in doom, why keep worrying about it? Maybe when a redshirt’s time is up, it’s just up, no matter what he or she is doing. Why not just do what you want to do?
“Because that kind of thinking leads to getting your spine removed by a yeti-gator, like my dad,” I mutter to myself. Like I’m going to let the voice of reason talk me down. No way. Reason is no match for my paranoia.
Then why are you here? the damn voice asks. Why aren’t you huddled away in your cabin on the Second Chance? Is it the girl? Are you in looove? The idiot voice stretches the last word out into three childish syllables.
“Shut up, asshole!” I burst out. Then freeze because Greta has skipped halfway down the hall and the only person in my vicinity is Pinky. Who eyes me with a look of mild disdain.
“I didn’t say anything,” she says.
“No! I didn’t mean you. I’d never—augh!” I plunge down the hallway after Greta, heedless of anything but putting my moronic outburst behind me.
Greta looks at me over her shoulder and smiles a sneaky sort of smile. She’s skimming her hand against the wall, swooping it up high, then down low. She hones in on a door, leaning close to it and sliding her index finger across. “This one,” she decides, reaching for opening mechanism.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Let’s see.” Before I can protest, she opens the door, which someone has neglected to lock, and she steps in.
I stand in the hallway, silently doing battle with the voice of reason. But Pinky catches up and nudges me forward.
As soon as I enter, I lose all sense of everything but the room itself. “Wow.”
It’s a data analysis center. 3D projectors provide up-to-the-second data on weather predictions, stock markets, planetary GDPs, along with thousands of other running algorithms. “Wow,” I say again. I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in college or within the cutting-edge company I work for. “How did you know this was here?” I ask Greta, not looking at her, but at all of the machines and projecting images around me.
“I didn’t.” She seems bored by the room itself, but entertained by my reaction to it. “You like it?”
“It’s fantastic.” The room is a wonderland of facts and data and calculations. I go from one readout to the next, studying each holographic projection.
I don’t know how long we’ve been there when Greta touches my shoulder. Her mouth is pursed into a tiny frown. “We should go.”
“Just another minute. I want to see—”
“Now,” she insists, calmly but firmly.
I come to my senses. Of course, I have to follow her lead. And I do—I follow her right down the staircase and out the door of the library.
“What was that place?” I ask as we stand, looking back at the building.
“I’m sure you could look it up later and find out.” Greta seems unconcerned.
“How did you know to take me—wait. I know. You didn’t. Right?”
She gives me a sly smile. “Now you’re catching on.”
Pinky stands alongside us, saying nothing.
“So now what?” I ask.
“I showed you something. Now you show me something,” Greta says.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Just do what I did. You lead, I follow. We see what we find.”
“I really can’t describe what a terrible idea that is.” How could I even start?
“You think every idea’s terrible. Let’s go.” She gestures. Not in any particular direction, just a move your ass kind of thing.
I sigh. So, it all boils down to this. Risking my life by showing off my preposterously bad luck for two people I only met days before. But even though I about-face and begin walking, I don’t feel an overwhelming sense of doom. Just a general air of doom, which is mildly refreshing.
We haven’t gone half a kilometer down the sidewalk when I get a very bad feeling. Normally, I’d run away from such a feeling like a frightened gazelle. Not today. I face that feeling by planting my feet in that spot and hiding directly behind Pinky. Because hey, I might be acting brave, but I’m not stupid.
Sure enough, in seconds, I hear a buzzing—a buzzing that grows increasingly louder, and five very long seconds later we see it: a dark, roiling cloud of bugs. What kind of bugs, I can’t determine, being neither an entomologist nor a citizen of Parkorvan. But it’s a big, black blob of angry buzzing, and it’s coming right for us.
A yell goes up across the street, with people bolting for the nearest building. Apparently, they know what these things are, and they’re not enthusiastic about this turn of events.
Do we move? Do we exercise the slightest bit of self-preservation? Nope. We stand there in the crossroads of my doom and Greta’s luck, and we let Pinky’s kenogu decide.
Greta gasps in shock and slaps a hand to her cheek. Pinky frowns and rubs at her neck. I feel a burning pinch on my forehead and realize the bugs are biters. Great. But as soon as the biting begins, and the black cloud seems about to converge on us, a massive wind comes along, scattering it. The bugs struggle against it, swirling in chaotic patterns. Greta and I grab onto Pinky as the gale force increases, threatening to knock us over.
Within ten seconds, the bug cloud disappears. Doors open and people peek to see if it’s safe to come out.
“What was that?” Greta seems amazed, even though an angry red bump is rising on her cheek.
“No idea,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “I hope they weren’t poisonous.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Greta’s eyes are wide with wonder.
“So where now?” Pinky asks.
I realize I still need to lead them somewhere. Should I keep steering us wherever my danger-sense tells me not to go?
“You want to go on?” I glance at Pinky, but then focus on Greta. This is her adventure. I don’t know what she’s trying to discover or prove, but maybe the bugs have scared her off.
Greta touches her cheek, gently probing the bug bite with her forefinger. She nods.
“Don’t pick at it,” I advise, taking her hand and holding it so she doesn’t aggravate it.
She nods again, suddenly quiet. She seems fascinated with the b
urning pain on her face. My face burns too, and I find it far less intriguing.
I hone in again on my internal danger-meter. What feels like the worst possible choice? Ah, yes. A right turn. That feels like a terrible decision. Greta should be overjoyed with whatever comes next.
A tall, stocky man crosses the street toward us. A van-like vehicle screeches around the corner and hits the man, who bounces up onto the front of the car, then falls to the road.
I steal a look at Greta, who looks positively gobsmacked, like she’s seeing Christmas for the first time. Pinky simply squints at the scene, looking undecided.
A man leaps out of the vehicle, but rather than rushing to the aid of the victim, he runs over and screams, “What the hell, man, you’re not doing this to me!”
The guy on the road gets to his feet, holding one arm to his side. “Do what? You hit me!”
The vehicularly homicidal maniac only grows more enraged. “Oh, no way! I will kill you in self-defense! I’ll do it!”
“Whatever, man.” The injured guy, still holding his arm, finishes crossing the street and awkwardly opens the door to his own vehicle.
But the maniac isn’t done. “Oh, no you don’t!” He pulls a small capsule from his waistband and sprays something toward the other guy, who ducks and then dives into his vehicle. His tires squeal as he drives away.
The maniac notices us watching. “What?!” he screams at us, then gets back in his van and slowly drives off.
Even Pinky looks flummoxed at this point. “What was that? What just happened?”
I shrug and Greta, her mouth slightly open, merely shakes her head.
We stand there on the sidewalk, my two companions blinking and screwing up their faces in various expressions of puzzlement. I’m far less affected. I’m accustomed to bizarre circumstances in general and have developed mental armor against them. Pinky and Greta do not have this same jadedness.
“So, are we ready to head back to the spaceport?” I ask hopefully.
Pinky and Greta silently look at each other, then at me. I take that to mean that they hadn’t yet grasped the reality of my existence. Fine. We’ll travel onward.