by M. D. Cooper
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 lean 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 be
en 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?”
“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.
A weight on my chest forces the air out of my lungs and I find myself struggling to breathe.
No. No. I can’t.
I feel for the wall and put my back to it. Using it for support, I slide my way back through the doorway and into the corridor. As the clank of silverware against dishes recedes, air gradually fills my lungs.
I close my eyes, trying to get a grip. Dr. Ramalama versed me well in many techniques for managing panic attacks. I begin mentally plotting a normal distribution. Within minutes, my terror recedes and my heartbeat slows to normal. I can’t go back into that dining room, though. Yet, I’m hungry.
A Pinky sandwich is what I need. Nobody uses forks in a pub. But it won’t be open this early.
A steward approaches with a look of concern. “Sir, can I be of assistance? Are you lost?”
“No. I was just…” being an anxiety-ridden redshirt. But I can’t say that. “When does the pub open?”
“It never closes.”
“It doesn’t?”
The steward nods, looking pleased. “Given that we sometimes have nocturnal passengers, we pride ourselves on providing round-the-clock services.”
“That wasn’t in the brochures.”
That takes the pleased look off my host’s face. Oops. I didn’t mean it to sound like a complaint. Damn my lack of finesse.
“Not to argue, sir, but the third click-through of the brochure, second paragraph up, reads, ‘Unlimited time limit is permitted for drinking.’”
Uhm. Right. How stupid of me to have overlooked that very obvious wording for “all-day bar.”
“I must have missed that part. I’m sorry to trouble you.”
The steward regains the look of pride that seems better suited for a war hero or something, but apparently, the attendants of the Second Chance take their jobs very seriously. “It’s never any trouble at all. We’re always glad to help. Do you need assistance getting to the pub?”
“No, thank you, I know the way.”
“Very good sir.” With a tiny bow, my host departs.
After that exchange, I alter my breakfast plans to include a drink.
***
As soon as I step into the bar, I see Pinky. She’s hard to miss.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” I say. “I thought you’d be up late last night.”
“I was. I don’t need much sleep.”
“What’s that like?” I ask.
Pinky stops wiping the bar and gives me her full attention. “Mostly fine. Boring sometimes. I like being around people, and that’s tough when most of them spend a third of their time sleeping.”
“Makes sense. How much do you sleep?”
“About an hour a day.” She studies me. “You hungry?”
I consider my response carefully in relation to her idea of portion sizes. “Just a little. I could use a small snack.”
Pinky nods knowingly. “I’m not that into breakfast, either. I know just the thing.” She retreats to the drink-prep area where she also orders food for her guests.
She returns a few moments later with a tall, skinny glass full of a clear beverage. After the previous night’s colors, I’m a little disappointed. But when she sets it in front of me, she drops in a clear, round ice cube and the drink immediately turns a deep blue.
“Morning Wakeup.” Her eyes are fixed on the glass.
It occurs to me that she isn’t going to move until I taste it. “Mm. Like tart blueberries, but crisp and refreshing.”
She seems satisfied by that. “It has more kick than you’d think. I’ve flattened more than one rude asshole with a couple of ‘on the house’ Morning Wakeups. That’s why I gave you a small glass.”
Pinky’s free food and drinks do not always come from a place of generosity, then. That somehow makes her more interesting to me and I wonder what her life is like. “It’s delicious. Thanks.”
She seems to ignore that, but I know she heard it because she no longer stands there frozen. She wheels away to mix some drinks, which are promptly whisked away on a tray by a porter. Room service, I suppose. Or maybe people in the dining room. I imagined them all getting drunk and going into a stabby fork frenzy.
A shiver goes down my spine and I take a gulp of my Wakeup.
A porter with
a tray arrives and, rather than accept it, Pinky points her chin toward me.
“Here you are, sir.” The porter sets the tray in front of me.
I’m relieved to see a normal-sized sandwich and a small pile of tater tots. Just like that, I start to fall for Pinky. Not in a romantic way, but in a deeper she-gets-me kind of way. Four years of therapy with Dr. Ramalama, and she never came close to really getting me, but in less than one day, Pinky has my full confidence. I’ll have to give that some serious thought.
I don’t know what’s in the sandwich, but it’s peppery, chewy, and delicious. “Are tater tots common in the Mebdar system?” I ask. I always thought they were an Earth thing.
Pinky looks at me like I’m a silly child. “Mebdarians invented tater tots.”
I’m not sure that’s true, but I nod agreeably. “I’ve always loved them.”
Pinky nods back, like we’re part of some secret club. “Fried potato and salt. What’s not to love?” She holds up her hand in a stop gesture and I stare at her stupidly until I realize what she wants. I toss her a tot. She catches it easily and pops it into her mouth. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”
I’ve never had this. Never sat at a pub, never threw food at people. Never felt like a truly normal person. I’ve always kept myself carefully one degree away from everything around me, for the sake of self-preservation. I have a sudden and liberating feeling of freedom. I never want to leave this pub.
The tater tot that chooses that particular moment to lodge itself into my throat and begin trying to murder me should not come as a surprise. My air supply cuts off and I try to alert Pinky but I only manage to make a quiet, pathetic honk.
She’s on it, though. Maybe it’s a hallucination due to panic and oxygen deprivation, but all seven feet of glorious Pinky vaults over the bar and grabs me like I’m a kitten. One quick squeeze that feels like I’ve been stepped on by an elephant and that tot flies across the pub and hits the bulkhead.
Pinky lowers me to the ground and sits next to me, gently patting my back as I cough and gasp and my eyes water and my nose runs.
Which of course is when I notice Ms. Greta Saltz watching in horror.