Dodging Fate: A Charlie Kenny Redshirt Adventure

by Zen DiPietro

  I check in with my danger-sense and feel like I need to head further from the city center to find something truly deranged. I lead my friends down the parkway about a kilometer and take a right turn. At the very end of that avenue I make another right turn. After that, a left.

  “It feels like we’re walking in circles,” Greta observes as we travel slowly down the picturesque but far less populated street.

  “Nope. I promise you, something really stupid is right that way.” I point, for effect. I’ve never tried to use my sense of doom to intentionally echolocate some crapfest of disaster. Thanks to these two, I’m acting in diametric opposition to my instincts.

  Another half hour of walking leads us down a road that has no traffic at all, other than the three of us. The sidewalk ran out some ways back and now we tramp over uneven grass. I don’t care for that, as the odds of my twisting an ankle or breaking a leg are too high. But it’s still better than walking on the shoulder of the road. That would just be begging for a very gruesome, messy death. No, thank you very much.

  When I realize we’re approaching some sort of military installation, I must admit, I feel an unusually high level of trepidation. But even though my sense of self-preservation screams, Run, you fool, or kiss your ass goodbye, I persevere. I walk right up to the perimeter fence with Pinky and Greta on either side of me.

  Nothing happens.

  “Now what?” Greta asks.

  “Just wait.”

  We wait there, with the sun shining cheerily above and happy birds chirping to each other from the trees alongside the road. And, sure enough, not five minutes later, we see something that I don’t mind categorizing as epic.

  A tank rolls out from behind the installation. I can’t claim to know why this little university planetoid has a military base armed with tanks. Maybe they’re afraid of someone coming in and kidnapping students from rich families and holding them for ransom. Or maybe space pirates have a tendency to stop off here to steal computer devices and flipflop shoes. Who knows? Maybe somewhere, there’s a species of people who prize flipflops above all else.

  Anyway, it’s obvious that something’s awry with this tank. Rather than roll out on a straight course, it weaves side to side, does lazy donuts (as much as a tank can do donuts because those bastards do not exactly corner well), and generally looks like a drunk monkey is driving it.

  Comically, a squadron of uniformed officers runs out in the tank’s wake, and even across the distance I can hear indistinct shouts. The officers’ shouts rise an octave and they run full-out. Another tank emerges. I wonder how many of the vehicles are stored behind the building.

  How does a person outside a tank stop a tank? They don’t. That’s the point of tanks.

  I hope their guns aren’t loaded.

  Aha. Four more tanks deploy now, and these aren’t driven with the airy abandon of a child going, Whee! These newcomers drive with obvious intent toward the freewheeling pair. After some time, they manage to block the two in. Officers on the ground climb up on the rogue tanks, shouting, and, within a few minutes, they open the hatches.

  A pair of monkeys clamber out.

  Right. Monkeys. Driving tanks. I knew we were on the trail of something unlikely, but I hadn’t expected such a spectacular show of preposterous dumbassery. There are no odds for calculating such a thing.

  So engrossed is my little group in watching all this unfold, we don’t notice the young, wiry human hoofing it toward us until he’s within throwing distance. Since my doom-sense hasn’t kicked in, I deem him a low-level threat.

  “Hey!” he pants. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  What can I say that won’t make things worse? I wisely keep my mouth closed. Greta looks lost for words.

  But Pinky has us covered. Though she’s been quiet on this excursion, she finally roars to life, in all her glory. “Well, here we are. Outside a fence. Watching you people play war games with monkeys. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  She stares the man down and he takes a half step back, stammering. “Ah, nothing’s wrong with me. I’m just a PR person for the fleet.”

  “Then what’s wrong with them?” She hitches her chin toward the tanks, monkeys, and officers. At the moment, the officers appear to be negotiating with the animals.

  “Well…” he glances back over his shoulder, then returns his gaze to us. Actually, just to me. He flinches away from looking at Pinky, as if she glows with the mighty brightness of a sun. “Some lab monkeys escaped from the university. They apparently became self-aware and decided to bust up the university that had imprisoned them.”

  “How do you know this?” I ask.

  “We have a sign language interpreter. Those are some pissed-off simians.”

  “I don’t blame them.” Greta speaks up for the first time.

  The guy glances back again. “Yeah. Me either.” He sighs. “I hate this job.”

  We all stand there, watching the monkeys and the officers gesticulating at each other. Finally, there’s a long standoff. The animals seem to be waiting for something. They’re handed a paper, which they confer over, and suddenly scramble down.

  “It appears that the long nightmare is over,” Greta observes drily.

  “Will they be okay?” I ask the PR man. I feel sorry for him. He’s going to have a nightmare of a PR crisis on his hands.

  “Yes,” he answers. “We have strict laws about sentient creatures. The university will have a lot to answer for.”

  I feel better about that, anyway.

  “So, if you three would sign some non-disclosure agreements?” He says this as if it fits right into our conversation.

  “Why should we?” Pinky asks, looking entirely indomitable.

  “Well…I could offer each of you a thousand universal credits, for your trouble.”

  “Hush money?” Pinky closes one eye and squints at him with the other. Somehow, her glare is more concentrated and intense with just one eyeball. “I’m good with that.”

  She glances at Greta and me, and we readily agree. Who would believe a story like this anyway?

  “Two thousand each, though,” Pinky decides.

  The guy licks his lips. “Sure. Sure. Two thousand.” He shoves a telcoder device at us. We sign, he transfers the credits, and we’re on our way.

  As we head back toward the city center, I decide it’s time to make an executive decision. “As interesting as this has been, it’s time to get back to the Second Chance. We need to have these bug bites looked at, and I really don’t care to have another strange run-in.”

  They agree to quit while we were ahead because, really, this last event is the highest note we could possibly leave on, so we go directly to the spaceport. Once inside, a doctor who happens to be traveling notices Greta’s face, and dispenses excellent and free care to all three of us.

  He says conversationally as he swabs our bite wounds, “Those firebug bites can be nasty. Their venom’s designed to provoke an allergic reaction. You three are lucky to still be on your feet. Weird that they’d be on the mainland, though. You usually only find them on the islands.”

  He goes on his way, leaving me with mixed feelings. Lucky to have avoided getting caught going into a private area of the library, and to have had no major reaction to the firebugs. Maybe even for witnessing something as ridiculous as sentient monkeys driving tanks to gain their independence. Running into a doctor who wanted to treat our bites was fortunate, too. Greta’s kenogu has been in force. But then, so has mine.

  I feel unsure about how to categorize the experience. Was it an adventure or a misadventure? We all came out okay, in spite of everything.

  As we enter the docking gate, Greta tries to lead some upbeat chitchat, but I’m tired and Pinky’s gone back to not saying much. Greta finally falls silent and we board the Second Chance. The main corridor is blocked for some sort of maintenance, so Pinky leads us into an employees-only service corridor.

  A sign reads, Please remove all scuba gear beyond
this point.

  “Let me guess,” I say, “that means something about automatic rebreathers or something.”

  Pinky shakes her head at me. “No. That really does mean that employees are not permitted to wear scuba gear in the service corridors.”

  “Why is that even an issue?”

  “It isn’t, anymore. Not since we got the sign. Anyway, I’m going straight here, but you two will go left. At the next junction you can re-enter the guest corridors.”

  I thought I’d gotten a handle on the Garbdorian signs, but, clearly, I still haven’t. Or maybe Garbdorians are just weird.

  “I think I’ll take a nap,” Greta says when we part ways. “I’m really tired after all that.”

  “Facing a plague of bugs and a monkey uprising can do that,” I joke lamely.

  She ignores my lameness. “Want to meet for dinner?” She names a time four hours away.

  “Sure. The pub, right?” I still want no part of the dining room.

  “Of course.” She smiles and takes her leave.

  As I watch her go, I try to decide which one of us had the bigger impact on the other today.

  I go back to my cabin, having made no determination.

  4

  You’d think the events of the day would keep me from being able to work. That I’d be preoccupied and uptight and unable to focus. But I sit down and work for two hours straight, running statistical models and showing those numbers who’s boss. Somehow, I feel good. I don’t mean all-my-body-parts-are-in-place-and-there’s-no-yeti-gator-in-my-room good. I mean the kind of good that normal people feel. At least, I assume so.

  The luck stone sits just to the right of my keyboard. I rest my index finger on it, half-believing in the thing. Stupid. It’s just a rock. But still. I’ve survived some pretty serious events since meeting Greta.

  I pick the stone up and drop it into my left palm, appreciating how smooth and cool it is. I feel like I’m in charge of my life, for the first time. Like I have options. Such as living to see middle age.

  I feel different. Weird. Empowered.

  Palming my luck stone, I walk to the corridor. To be honest, I kind of strut. At least it feels like a strut. It might be a mere casual stroll, but in place of my usual cautious creep, it feels pretty badass.

  Tempting fate, I walk down the center of the corridor, rather than hugging close to the bulkhead. Even as I do, a shadow of my danger-sense whispers to me. What am I doing? Have I gone mad?

  I squash the voice of reason in my head and blast a doot-doot-doot-da-doot-da-doot-doot kind of song over it. The kind that movie soundtracks always play when the major players show up and wow us all with their epic coolness. If I hadn’t been strutting before, damn sure I’m doing it now. That’s right, ladies. Take a look at all this.

  I don’t even pause as I approach the entrance to the dining room. I’m a new man, and I strut right the hell in.

  And freeze.

  The forks. So many forks. Forks in hands, forks in mouths, forks threatening to launch themselves airborne straight toward my vulnerable, vulnerable eyes.

  With a squeak that is so very not badass, I literally launch myself out of the dining room. I land on the floor of the corridor and gather myself enough to crabwalk to the bulkhead and lean against it, eyes closed, my breath rasping in my ears.

  Clearly, some of my deeper complexes are hanging on with a vengeance. But at least I tried. Not only had I contemplated the possibility of entering the dining room, I’d waltzed right in. It’s progress. And I don’t even care what Dr. Ramalama would say. I’m now convinced that my time with her was worthless. She never got me. Never understood me. She never even remembered my birthday. I mean, who spends a whole afternoon listening to someone pour their guts out, and doesn’t even bother to notice that it’s his birthday when it’s displayed on the screen in her hands?

  I rise to my feet. Screw Ramalama. She never helped me. The two people who do help are waiting for me in the pub.

  We have a good time that night. We laugh, we eat, we reminisce about the sentient monkeys. We make fun of Gvertflorians and all their tentacles.

  Okay, I feel bad about that one afterward. I don’t consider myself better than someone with tentacles that are reflexively drawn to the groins of other species. It’s just nature for them, and we’re juvenile assholes to laugh about it.

  But I’ve never had this kind of camaraderie with anyone and am swept away by the feeling. Already, I have history with Pinky and Greta, and it feels amazing.

  Four days later, we visit a space station inhabited by a fish-like people that sound like they’re underwater when they speak, even though the station’s perfectly dry. It leads to some misunderstandings and I might have accidentally married one of them before departing.

  Five days after my potential nuptials, Greta, Pinky, and I take a tour of a new Martian colony. It’s rustic and new and has an air of adventure. Pinky mistakes the purpose of a particular bucket and let’s just say we leave that place in a hurry.

  Another five days takes us to a very basic space station with nothing to recommend it whatsoever. After so much oddness, the normalcy seems strange. Until I’m served with alimony papers from my fishwife. Apparently, I did get married, after all.

  Imagine that—me, a married man. I almost feel pride at my accomplishment, but instead, I just scream and run away to the Second Chance.

  Which brings us to Mebdar III and Greta’s departure.

  I feel gutted about losing her, and that isn’t a fish joke. In just three weeks, she and Pinky have become my best friends. No, more than that; they’ve become family. The idea of living without them tears me apart inside. Normally, I’d assume I’ve somehow consumed a Brantaguan sea shark parasite, but I know the feeling to be dread. And heartbreak.

  Our last dinner together in Pinky’s pub is a somber affair. We try to keep the conversation light, but fail. Pinky and Greta seem to feel the same way I do.

  Finally, Greta reaches out and puts her hand on mine. “These last weeks have been amazing. My life has always been so dull and predictable. With you two, I’ve seen adventure I’d never even dreamed of. I really hate the idea of getting off on Mebdar III. I’m afraid I’ll do this job and when I’m done, I’ll never have this again.” When she says “this,” she holds out her hands in a way that encompasses the three of us.

  Pinky looks like she wants to say something, but instead wipes the counters with far more energy than necessary.

  My heart fills, and I lean toward her to let it all spill out. To let her know how I feel.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Stupid, stupid constipated heart.

  Greta looks disappointed, as if she expected some big words too, but she pats my hand and we sit together in silence.

  “What if I don’t go to Mebdar IV?” I blurt. Oh, so I do have more words in me. How about that.

  Pinky stops wiping the bar and Greta watches me with hope and dread.

  Greta cautiously says,“But it’s safer for you there. I don’t want you to get redshirted and eaten by a cyborg like your grandma.”

  “Not eaten, just transformed,” I correct. It’s an oddly common misperception. “But what if our individual kenogus combine to give us a new kenogu when we’re together?”

  Greta wears pure hope on her face now. “Do you think so? Like we’re two sides of a magnet or something, and we neutralize each other’s pull?”

  Greta clearly doesn’t have a strong background in science, but she gets her point across. We do seem to temper each other’s luck.

  “What do you think, Pinky?” I ask.

  She looks from me to Greta. “I think you two are dumb if you don’t stay together.” She frowns. “And even dumber if you don’t stay here with me.”

  Aw. That’s practically a declaration of love, coming from Pinky.

  Greta eyes me hesitantly. “So, I do this virtual tour job and then get back to the Second Chance before it takes off again. And you skip Mebdar IV. And w
e just keep going. See where our luck takes us?”

  Can I do it? Give up the safety of Mebdar IV? The handrails in every room, the buffets of entirely soft, smushy foods, and the hourly health checks?

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  Greta’s eyes sparkle. “Okay, let’s do it!”

  I feel like celebrating. “Pinky, how about making us three Backdoor Specials?”

  Pinky winks at me and heads for the blenders.

  While she works, I grab one of the drink menus I’ve never looked at before and notice a disclaimer. Drinks provided by provider may not always be provided.

  When Pinky returns with the massive drinks—which she somehow manages to carry in one hand—I point to the disclaimer. “What does that mean?”

  Pinky tosses back half of her drink, which probably amounts to a liter of Backdoor, and I gaze at her in awe.

  “It means I have the right to refuse service,” she says.

  “That makes sense. Who writes these terrible translations, anyway?” I ask.

  “I do.”

  Greta and I stare at her.

  “But you speak Standard perfectly,” I say, puzzled.

  “Yeah. I just think it’s funny.” Pinky shrugs.

  Suddenly, my heart bursts wide open and I laugh my ass off, right along with Greta. Eventually, Pinky joins us. We drink our Backdoors, keep laughing, and start planning our next misadventure.

  I think it’s going to be a good one.

  Escape from My Fishwife

  5

  I’ve been marked for death since my birth. Bad luck is a genetic condition among my people, and it’s only due to the combined luck and badassery of my companions that I’ve survived this far.

  This means that I’m reluctant to let my friends down. I owe them, on a cosmic level. They’ve taken a sectarian rube and made him into a universe-traveling adventurer.

  At least, that’s what I’m aiming for. Today is starting off with some hardcore training, and I’m just hoping I don’t shame myself.

  “Are you ready?” Deep concern shows on Greta Saltz’s face.