Pew! Pew! - Bad versus Worse

by M. D. Cooper

  The angle shifts and I see Alex rushing forward, grabbing at a blagrook, and then the thing viciously attacks him.

  The film abruptly jumps and I’m surprised to see myself appear, along with Greta. A blagrook launches itself at us and suddenly Pinky’s there, taking aim and knocking it across the room.

  The angle shifts and there’s Pinky, larger than life, looking cooler and more composed than any movie hero I’ve ever seen.

  She swings her bat up to rest on her shoulder and says, “We go hunting.”

  “Perfect!” Alex exclaims. “Now switch to the surveillance cameras.”

  I see a series of clips showing Nana leading the way around the station, and Pinky pounding blagrook after blagrook.

  “Alex?” Greta finally asks. “Are you okay?”

  He turns, surprised to see us. “Greta, darling! I’m more than okay. I’m a genius!”

  Considering I just watched him try to grab a blagrook with his bare hands, I strongly disagree with his assessment. I keep my mouth closed, though.

  “What do you mean?” Greta asks. From the careful way she says it, I know she’s thinking the exact same thing.

  “I’m shifting the focus of the story. I’m going with an alien invasion theme.” Alex is radiating excitement.

  “But it’s titled ‘Her Husband’s Secret.’” Greta looks bewildered. “It’s a psychological drama. There are no aliens.”

  “There are now,” he says. “I’m changing the title to ‘Attack of the Blagrooks.’ It’s going to be an action thriller.”

  Words have failed Greta. She’s staring at Alex like he’s the alien.

  He takes no notice, looking right past us. Amazingly, he becomes even more animated. I feel like he’s going to hurt himself if he doesn’t calm down.

  I glance over my shoulder to see Pinky and Nana coming in behind us.

  “And there are my stars!” Alex exclaims.

  ***

  The day after the blagrook escape, Alex has us all back on the set. The place now looks like an industrial waste dump.

  Pinky is much happier with her role now. Instead of being a sage, she’s now a take-no-crap customs official. Most importantly, she gets to smash stuff.

  We spend the morning watching her happily smashing stuff, and truly, I’ve never seen Pinky happier. Nana smashes a few things too, and even Greta has a scene where she fires a pistol which, we’re told, will result in a huge explosion once they create the effects.

  Even I’m placed in a few scenes, since I show up on the surveillance cameras and it would be strange not to have me show up anywhere else. I only have a few lines, consisting mainly of things like, “Oh no!” and, “Look out!”

  Mostly, it’s just my job to look nervous or scared. Fortunately, that is my wheelhouse, and I feel like I’m able to deliver a wildly believable performance.

  Pinky, as the star of the show, has more to do than the rest of us. She likes the talking part a lot less than the smashing part, though. Pinky will repeat the same line four times. Ask her for a fifth time and she gets pissy.

  Alex is learning to conserve his efforts in having her deliver lines.

  “Okay,” he calls. “That was great. Now, let’s do the line ‘Let’s go hunting’ again, with you walking off camera.”

  “No.” Pinky doesn’t move.

  Alex is used to people jumping at his command. Working with Pinky is nothing like that.

  “What?” He blinks in confusion.

  “We did that,” Pinky says. “I’ve said ‘let’s go hunting’ about a hundred times, and I’ve done tons of walking. And I was great. So you work with what you already have on that camera of yours. Are we done here?”

  Alex’s bewilderment makes me want to laugh. Later, I will. For now, I clamp my lips together.

  He uncertainly asks, “Can we get you stepping forward and doing a thumbs-up?”

  “I like it. Let’s do that.” Pinky sets her bat aside. After sticking her thumbs up several times, she says. “Oh, I know. How about some dancing? Like, maybe I’ve blasted all the blagrooks, and decide to celebrate by having a dance party?”

  Alex’s face glazes over, like he’s partially phase-shifting into another dimension but part of him remains here, too. He realizes now what he’s done in eliciting Pinky’s help, and regardless of what happens with this movie, I’m certain that this is a lesson that will affect him for the rest of his life, in some sort of way.

  “Uh…okay. Yeah…”

  And there it is. I’m pretty sure I’ve just watched a man lose his will to live.

  Pinky sometimes has that effect on people.

  Things finish up pretty fast after that. Pinky impresses the crew with her legitimately sick dance moves—that’s sick as in really great, not as in ill or gross or something—then we’re free to go. Our job here is done.

  Alex half-heartedly invites us to a wrap party, but Pinky shuts him down cold.

  “No way,” she tells him. “I have enough to do for the holidays. You take care of your own damn gifts and ribbons and stuff.”

  Greta whispers in my ear, “Should we tell her what a wrap party really is?”

  I shake my head. “Not after a line like that.”

  So we return to the Second Chance. We’ve ruined a movie, starred in a different movie, and saved a station from a blagrook attack. Plus, Pinky got to smash a lot of stuff.

  All in all, it’s been a good couple of days.

  ***

  I spend the rest of that afternoon and evening catching up on some work. When I send it in to my employers, I wonder if any of them will see the movie. Wouldn’t that be something?

  I’m glad to be back to the regular routine, though. The brush with my redshirt luck has left me unharmed, but craving the comfort of predictability.

  Greta meets me for dinner at Pinky’s, and when I get there, the décor has changed. The garlands are gone, and giant candy canes have appeared in their place. They hang on the walls, dangle from the ceilings, and Pinky even has one behind the bar, propped up to one side.

  “Need some help mixing drinks tonight?” I ask, raising my voice to be heard. “The place is packed!”

  “Maybe later,” Pinky says. “Tonight is Martian Christmas, so everyone’s having the traditional egg nog and pecan sandies. It’s easy to keep up with.”

  She puts a glass of egg nog in front of each of us, then adds a basket of little round cookies. “Is Nana Rose coming?”

  I bite into a cookie and it’s delicious. “No, she said she was tired.”

  “I didn’t know cyborgs get tired,” Greta says.

  “Neither did I. Usually Nana has more energy than I do. But cyborg or not, she’s still elderly.” I want another cookie, but I should have a meal first. “What’s the traditional Martian dinner, anyway?”

  “Beef stroganoff ration packets,” Pinky answers.

  “Seriously? Why?”

  She shrugs. “Their colonization was rough, I guess, and sometimes things stick. Who cares? Some traditions suck and should be ignored.”

  “I guess so. Would tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich be appropriate?”

  “That sounds good,” Greta says. “Two orders of that, please, Pinky.”

  While Pinky sends our order to the kitchen, I decide to segue into the mistletoe thing. All this talk of tradition seems like the perfect time.

  “What does your family do for the holiday?” I ask.

  “Oh, the usual.” She smiles fondly. “We celebrate Rotation Day. It’s kind of an acknowledgment of the year, you know, going around the sun another time. We fly kites, eat pretzels, and insult each other. It’s nice.”

  “Insult each other?”

  “Just jokingly. We tease one another about all the things we didn’t do during the year, or unfortunate things we did do. It’s not mean. It’s meant to be motivational for the year ahead.” She toys with the cookie basket, scooting it around in a circle.

  “You miss home, don’t you?” I
never realized it, because she rarely mentions her home or family. Probably because talking about it makes her homesick.

  “Sure. Doesn’t everyone miss home during the holidays?” She smiles.

  “I don’t. I’d much rather be here.” I remember my intention of laying the mistletoe groundwork. “Although…I do miss the mistletoe tradition.”

  “I don’t think I know that one. What is it?”

  I chuckle. “Well, it’s kind of silly, but fun. For some reason, people a long time ago used to hang up this tree fungus called mistletoe. When two people happened to find themselves standing under it, they kissed.”

  Her forehead crinkles. “Tree fungus?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know why. Traditions are strange sometimes. But people always laughed and had fun.”

  “Did you kiss a lot of girls under the mistletoe?” She grins at me.

  “No. I was never lucky enough to end up standing under it with anyone I wanted to kiss, and since I didn’t want to kiss my Uncle Cecil, I made sure to keep my distance.”

  She giggles. “So there’s an element of risk involved with this game, too.”

  I’d never thought of it that way. “Yeah. Strategy too, I guess. Trying to avoid the kisses you don’t want, and get the ones you do.”

  “It sounds fun.” She sips her egg nog. “Earth holidays feature this drink too, right? It’s yummy.”

  “Yup. The other planets in my solar system did a lot of borrowing of Earth traditions, so we share a lot of similarities.” I frown, then add, “Except for Mercury. Those people are kind of crazy.”

  Our food arrives and we enjoy the evening. It’s a little boisterous at times, with some impromptu singing of carols and occasional throwing of streamers, but it’s still a nice, low-key way to end the day.

  Afterward, when I get back to my cabin, I try again to contact Gus. I’ve been assured that he’s fine and has returned to his work as usual, but I think he’s avoiding me. I don’t know if he’s embarrassed or if he’s one french fry short of a basket. For the well-being of the ship and crew, I need to check into that.

  Tomorrow. After the last couple of days, I’m in need of a good, long sleep.

  ***

  Before tackling the Gus situation, I need to handle the Pinky situation. I’ve asked her to my cabin for a serious talk.

  My room always looks small, but with her inside, it’s positively miniscule. We bravely ignore this situation, though, in order to focus on the issue at hand.

  “Pinky,” I begin. “Gus is about to have a mental breakdown. He may have already had a tiny one.”

  She gazes at me impassively. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  This is tricky. I need to be careful how I present this. “As much fun as the Chance 3000 has been, Gus has gotten a lot of customer complaints about it.”

  To preserve Pinky’s feelings, I’m characterizing being terrorized by an elevator as “fun.”

  She stares at me.

  “You meant for that to happen, right?” I prod.

  “Yeah, you got me. If you ask me, the ship’s much better this way, too. Much more fun.”

  “Oh yeah, for sure,” I agree. I don’t mention all the times it most certainly was not fun, but the Chance 3000 has had a decent moment here or there. “But you know how much Gus prides himself on doing a good job. He’s starting to crack, and if something doesn’t change, we’re going to need a new head porter.”

  I hold my breath, hoping I’ve managed to say all the right things in just the right way.

  Pinky frowns. “I didn’t like how he disrespected me. There’s a price for that. But I didn’t mean to make him go completely batshit. I don’t want to have to break in a new head porter, either.”

  “Do you think you could uninstall the Chance 3000?”

  “But things would get so boring.” She rubs her chin. “How about if it only activates when there are no guests in the elevator? That way, the guests don’t complain, Gus doesn’t crack his nut, and the rest of us still get to enjoy the refreshing change of pace?”

  I’m guessing “crack his nut” is a Mebdarian euphemism for going crazy. Sometimes out here in space, a person just has to lean into context.

  For my own part, I have not found all of the Chance 3000’s antics refreshing, but this might be the best deal I can wrangle.

  “Let’s give it a try,” I suggest. “How long would it take you to make the change?”

  She studies the fingernail of her right index finger. “Eh. Twenty minutes, probably.”

  “Great. If you go ahead and do that now, Gus could begin his day with the lovely surprise of a sudden stop to the elevator complaints.”

  Pinky picks at the nail. “I want him to apologize.”

  Uh oh. “What?”

  “He insulted me, and my profession. He acted like being a bartender was beneath the job of head porter. It isn’t, and I want him to say so.”

  “Everyone here knows how vital you are to the ship.” I’m not just flattering her. Pinky’s bar is wildly popular, and the reason Greta decided to live on this particular ship. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  “Fine. If he apologizes, and means it, I’ll do it.”

  “How will you know if he means it?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’ll know.”

  I’m not so sure about that. That was how we got into this problem in the first place.

  But all I can do is smile bravely. “Okay, then! I’ll talk to Gus, we’ll get things ironed out, and we’ll all be one big happy family, just in time for the holidays.”

  Pinky shoots me a suspicious look, like I’m trying to pull one over on her.

  “I mean it,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, and I want everyone here to be happy.”

  Her expression softens. “Okay, Charlie. You win. As a gesture of goodwill, and because I’m still in a good mood about becoming a movie star, I’ll go right now and fix the elevator. But if Gus doesn’t live up to his end of the bargain, I can change it right back.”

  “He will. Of course he will. How could he not, when you’re such a peach?”

  Pinky brightens. “You bet I am. Do you want to help me put up some decorations later?”

  “More holiday decorations in the bar? Could they possibly fit?”

  “Not the bar. The corridors. They’re dull. I think the guests will appreciate a more festive atmosphere. A lot of them are traveling to spend time with their families.”

  “True,” I agree. “And the ones who are traveling for work or whatever could certainly use a little extra cheer.”

  “Yeah! Let’s do it!” Pinky stands and slaps her hands together.

  “Okay!” I stand, too. “Right after the elevator thing.”

  She points at me.

  She has a very imposing point.

  “I see what you did there. But it’s fine. Let’s make the Second Chance the happiest place in the galaxy.”

  ***

  “Ha ha ha!” Pinky exclaims as she hangs a wreath opposite the shower room.

  “That’s ho ho ho, actually.” I’m sticking some feathered pom poms to the wall. I don’t know what holiday they’re for, but they’re kind of cute.

  “Ho? Why?” She slaps some blue stars into my hands.

  “Nobody knows why. It just is.”

  “Oh. Okay. Ho ho ho, then!” She gestures at me to start sticking the stars to the wall.

  “Are these pentagrams or stars of David?” I flip through them, but they’re all ambiguous.

  “Don’t you know?” She stands next to me and studies them.

  “No. Either would make sense for a holiday thing, but the two belong to very different groups.”

  Pinky shrugs. “I guess they can be multipurpose.”

  I shrug, too, because that actually makes sense to me. We can’t possibly cover every single holiday in existence, but we’re doing our best to bring something of significance for all the people traveling on the ship during the
holiday season.

  She begins singing a song about a lecherous ocelot that has me scanning the corridor to make sure no guests are coming.

  “What holiday is that one from, Pinky?”

  She adjusts a bit of tinsel so that it hangs just so. “Oh, it’s not a holiday song. It’s a new release from Revnar VIII. Catchy chorus, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, you bet.”

  “You think Nana Rose will come help?” Pinky asks. “I haven’t seen much of her since the blagrook incident.”

  “I think it tired her out,” I say. “I’m a little concerned about her, actually. I’ll check in on her when we’re done with this.”

  She tugs the last couple of stars out of my hands. “Go ahead and do it now. I’ll feel better knowing she’s okay, and you will, too.”

  Deep down, Pinky’s a big softy.

  Deep deep down. Like in those movies where there’s seemingly no floor, and someone drops a coin and waits to hear it hit bottom and it never does. That kind of deep down.

  “Okay. I’ll catch up to you later, then.”

  She gives me a one-handed thumbs-up and returns to her festive efforts.

  ***

  At Nana’s cabin, I cautiously tap on the door. She’s proven her hearing is excellent, and startling her seems like a bad idea.

  She doesn’t answer, so after I stand there like a dingus staring at her door for two solid minutes, I tap again.

  The door opens, and Nana joins me in the hall, closing the door behind her. But not before I saw what was going on in her room.

  “Nana,” I say. “Have you organized an underground canasta game?”

  “No.” Her voice has gone up in that way that tells me she’s lying.

  “Nana.”

  She sighs. “So what? We’re all adults.”

  “You know that organized gambling is prohibited on interstellar ships. Jurisdiction gets super tricky on that kind of thing, so it’s just banned. You couldn’t wait until we got to Alpha Centauri to play some canasta?”

  Nana sighs and leans back against the cabin door. “Look, Charlie, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I really like seeing you more often, and your friends are great. Especially that Pinky. She and I had all kinds of fun bashing those aliens. But the truth is, I’m an old woman. Don’t let all my hardware fool you—I’d rather be baking and playing canasta than just about anything else. It’s nothing you’ve done—it’s just that when you get to a certain age, you know what you like, and you know your time is limited, and you want to do the things you like as much as you can. So don’t take it personally.”