by M. D. Cooper
As my taxi pulls into the passenger drop-off lane and I get out, I carefully watch for veering vehicles, runaway luggage trolleys, and robots run amok. It doesn’t matter that these events are unlikely. They happen, and when they do, you can bet I’m going to be right there, front and center, poised to become another redshirt headline. As I enter the space port, I feel a small measure relief, but I’ve only made it over one little hurdle. There are many more to come.
Don’t even get me started on how many ways there are to die. We poor bastards of squishy cellular composition, with our delicate throats and exposed eyeballs and need for a very specific mix of air are all but destined for a sad, messy end. It’s like some sick sadist actually designed us for maximum suffering. We’re just too high maintenance.
This is an advantage the cyborgs and AIs have over us. It’s an advantage that, honestly, I sometimes covet. I mean, I could deal with only being able to make shitty cookies and having to be careful around strong magnets. But sacrificing my brain, autonomy, and greater consciousness is too high a price. Therefore, I’m stuck with this soft, vulnerable body, which is basically just a bag of water with a little carbon thrown in.
As I look at the throngs of people moving through the spaceport, I take a deep breath and begin my calming exercise. It’s a technique Dr. Ramalama taught me where I focus on something that gives me a sense of control. In accordance with both my nature and my profession, I mentally calculate the probabilities of various events.
My background as a redshirt, along with my likelihood of a tragic and untimely end, prompted me to become a statistician. One of the first things you learn in statistics class is that a previous random event has no bearing at all on the next random event. But someone like Dr. Ramalama doesn’t know what I know; that good luck and bad luck are as real as gravity or solar radiation. Just because you can’t see luck doesn’t mean it isn’t a true force of nature. The mechanics of it are the secret of the universe, but it’s a genuine and measurable phenomenon.
I really need the universe to provide me with a little good luck to see me through this voyage. I knew this all along as I prepared for this trip, but as I step into the writhing mass of eager travelers, I feel my family legacy—my probable fate—in the back of my throat. Threatening to choke me.
People are rushing around me in all possible directions, often while carrying heavy baggage. I carry only one slim overnight bag. Having read about the muggings that can occur when a person is overburdened and distracted, I chose to send my belongings to Mebdar IV ahead of me. I don’t mind wearing my single outfit and pair of pajamas every day. My manner of dress is consistent even when I have a full closet. A slim pair of beige trousers ensures that I don’t get tripped up by excess fabric, while a plain beige stretch-knit shirt provides the most opportunity to escape from anything that might snag the garment. Nowhere on my person do I have hanging tabs, ties, or dangling pieces that might get slammed in a door, caught on a chair, or otherwise be turned into a way of strangling or hanging me.
I do not want my epitaph to read: Here lies Charles Kenny. He was strangled by his own pants. If I’m going to die in some terrible way, at least it should be something with some pizzazz, like Nana being assimilated into a cyborg.
I wonder how she is. I should write her a letter.
Carrying my bag in front of me, I carefully avoid making contact with the people hurrying by. I don’t want to get beaten to a pulp for brushing shoulders with some macho Taklarian brute. I ignore the food cart vendors and their fantastic-smelling goods because I do not need food poisoning. Likewise, I hustle right by the gorgeous girls selling exotic vacations and unrealistic dreams. Not because I fear they might attack me in some way, but because, for a guy like me, a woman that beautiful is bound to be the death of me in some slower, subtler, and excruciatingly painful way.
I have to make a right turn just in front of one of these fantastic creatures. I pretend not to hear her siren song offering a free night’s stay and complimentary bar pass for a week’s vacation on the beaches of Faarklaar. It’s a prettier planet than the name implies.
Awash with relief and the unfamiliar feeling of success, I make it to the docking gate, and take a seat to wait. After ten minutes, the door to the gate opens and a smiling human of around fifty years arrives to welcome me and usher me to the airlock.
“Will this be your first visit to the Mebdar system?” he asks as he escorts me.
“Yes.”
“Ah, well, I think you’ll enjoy it. I hope you enjoy your voyage as well. Garbdorian starships aren’t pretty, but their safety record is superior to that of any other fleet.”
“Yes, that’s why I chose this airline. That, and the fact that they staff their ships with people who speak a variety of languages. I didn’t want a miscommunication to result in my grisly death.”
The man seems taken aback. I may have said too much.
But he recovers quickly. “Well, no worries about that here. Our staff will speak to you in Earth Standard, if that’s what you prefer.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
As I step into the airlock, he looks hesitant. “Though, I should warn you about the signs on the ship. The Garbdorians pride themselves on translating all languages into Standard and, well, sometimes they don’t quite convey the intended message. Be sure to ask a staff member when in doubt.”
That seemed less than promising, but it was too late to rethink my choices. “Okay. Thank you.”
He brightens. “Enjoy your trip.”
Enjoyment would be nice, but I’d happily settle for mere survival.
***
I carefully step over the ridge on the other side of the airlock. There’s a one-millimeter difference between the ship side and the lock side. Most people wouldn’t notice it, and certainly no one would ever trip on it. Unless that someone was me.
Once officially aboard the ship, I notice a sign that says Please careful your walking in vestigial parallel of conformity.
As I try to figure that out, a dapper looking steward swoops in. “Welcome, Mr. Kenny. Thank you for choosing the Second Chance for your voyage. Please let us know if there’s anything we can help you with.”
“Hang on. This ship is named Second Chance?” My ticket only listed a Chance Fleet registry number.
“Yes, sir.” The reed-thin man holds his hands in front of him, with his fingers forming a tent sort of shape.
“What happened to the First Chance? Did something go wrong?”
“Oh, no. The Chance is still flying. This is the second in the Chance Fleet. We have seven now, and hundreds of thousands of happy customers.”
Explained that way, it doesn’t seem so bad. I was worried there for a second.
I point to the puzzling sign. “What does that mean?”
“That’s translated from Martian. It just means to watch your step, since some species are very sensitive to even the subtlest of changes in artificial gravity. The warning is mostly for Martians, who have unusually flat feet due to thousands of years of subterranean dwelling. They fall easily.”
I’ve never heard of that. “So why not have the sign in Martian, since it’s just for them? Why translate it to Standard?”
The man is clearly aghast at the idea. “And look like sectarian rubes? Not in the Chance Fleet. We offer a species-inclusive experience.”
“Uh…right.” I really have no response for that. It seems I have much to learn about interstellar travel and the intricacies of interspecies relations.
“You’re in cabin 25J. Right this way, please.” Without waiting to make sure I’m following, the guy begins a journey of ponderous twists and turns that finally ends with him planting himself parallel to a door and gesturing to it as if it were the grand prize on some lightstream gameshow. He fits a small fob into the lock mechanism and does the look at what you could win gesture again, so I scuttle sideways into the room like a frightened crab.
I set my carry-on atop the only piece of furniture in
the room: a small ledge that will fold down from the wall to form a table. Or a desk. Or is it a seat? One thing’s for sure: I’m not going to have to worry about getting up to retrieve something from the other side of the room. If I stretched my arms out, I could brush both sides of the room with my fingertips. The space is only slightly longer on the other axis.
“So…where’s the bed?” I don’t want be taken for one of those sectarian rubes he’d spoken so scathingly of, even if I am one. But the brochure on the travel channel of the lightstream had mentioned beds, and in a few hours, I’ll need to sleep. I intend to keep to a strict schedule of sleeping and waking. Fatigue is a leading cause of fatal mishap.
“Very easy to operate!” The man springs into action. He gently places my bag on the floor, then pulls what I’d taken for a piece of abstract art on the wall and folds it down, combining it with the table/desk/whatever to form a bed. It’s kind of amazing.
“And if you need a chair, you do this.” He shows me how to push the bed back into the wall and pull out other structures, which fold together to make a chair.
Quite clever, really. The designers had packed a lot of function into a tiny space.
“Your storage compartment is here.” He touches a panel in the wall that pops out to reveal a one-meter by one-meter storage shelf. “And, of course, your lightstream is here.” He gestures to the opposite wall, the one that would be oriented near the foot of the bed, if it were assembled. The widescreen seems oversized for the tiny space.
The man holds out a flat rectangle. “This is your control for it.”
I accept the shiny black thing. It’s much fancier than the one I’d had at home. I gave my lightstream to Mrs. Redding down the hall a week ago. Better to buy a new one when I get to Mebdar IV. Shipping it would cost just as much and it would probably get broken in the process anyway.
“There’s a virtual tour of the ship on the home channel, so you’ll be able find your way to any part of the ship. Room service is available, and the dining room never closes. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, I think that covers it. Thank you.”
“Excellent, Mr. Kenny. My name is Gus. If there’s anything you should need, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
He places the key fob in my palm and as he turns to go, my bladder reminds me of something I’ve forgotten. “Oh, excuse me, Gus. Where is the—” And I get stuck. How to refer to the toilet without my rube-ishness showing? “I mean, where do I—”
Gus understands and saves me from my unworldliness. “The water closet is out your door and to the right, two sections down. The shower room is to the left, three sections down.”
Separate toilets and showers. Apparently, my morning routine will need a little bit of an adjustment.
“Thank you, Gus.”
He gives me a jaunty I like the way those pants fit you kind of wave and leaves. Apparently, that gesture means something else here. I try to commit that fact to memory, so I won’t misinterpret the intentions of my fellow passengers.
I pick up my bag from the floor and place it in the storage compartment, then sit on the chair. Alone. In an otherwise empty, blandly cream-colored room. Others might find this disconcertingly boring.
I find it pleasantly safe.
***
Since I’ll be on board for three weeks, I need to know the layout—particularly the emergency evacuation routes, as well as any locations that have particularly incendiary or explodey bits. I turn on the lightstream for the virtual tour of the Second Chance.
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 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 enou
gh 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.”