Pew! Pew! - Sex, Guns, Spaceships... Oh My!

by M. D. Cooper

  She pulls me off the path, between a pair of trees with long purple flowers spiraling down. The noise of the water nearly disappears. Greta leads me deeper into the cool, damp space between the trees.

  “Here.” She sits with her legs folded and gestures at me to do the same.

  I sit across from her.

  She takes my hands and presses hers to mine, palm to palm, fingers toward the unseen sky above. Then she laces her fingers with mine. It isn’t like holding hands, really. It’s more like being in a secret clubhouse and we’re the only two members. Which feels…nice. I’ve never belonged with others, and I imagine this is what belonging feels like.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” she says. “Are you okay now?”

  “Yes.” Inside this little hideaway, I feel fine. I can smell all the floral aromas, along with the earthier smell beneath these trees.

  “I’ll be right back, then.”

  Before I can say anything, she trots out of our hideout, opposite of the direction we’d come in.

  So, I sit there, alone, with my butt gradually growing damp from the soft dirt and leaves beneath. It isn’t actually unpleasant, though. The air is fresh and smells good. No bugs are buzzing around. I wonder why. Aren’t bugs attracted to flowers and trees and dirt and stuff? Maybe Posytin is just different than Earth.

  Greta returns after only a few minutes, carrying a tray with pointy brown things on it. “The edible flowers I told you about. They’re called heliopoppers.” She takes one of the things, which is about the length of her longest finger, dips it into the sauce, then takes a crunching bite. “Mmm,” she sighs, clearly delighted by the flavor. “Try one.” She sets the tray between us.

  I pick one up between my forefinger and thumb. It could be any fried food, really. It’s brown. As far as I can tell, it smells okay. I dredge it in the sauce and take a cautious nibble.

  I try really hard to be polite, since she so clearly likes the things. But they taste like deep-fried perfume, which doesn’t work for me.

  “Aw, you don’t like them.” Greta looks disappointed.

  “Not in the least. Sorry. Ah…” I glance around. “Is there somewhere we could get a drink?”

  I feel like I’ve guzzled my grandmother’s cologne. The other grandma, not the cyborg one.

  “Sure.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re out of the flower garden and seated at an outdoor café. I sip an iced tea and delight in having the heliopopper taste out of my mouth.

  “So, what’s it like?” she asks, watching me with that look of fascination.

  “What?” For a second, I think she means the tea, but then I realize she means my life.

  She waves a hand in a gesture that encompassed all of me. “Being you. Nearly dying on a tater tot. Being afraid of a waterfall. All that.”

  I don’t know how to answer. I mean, it sucks to be on edge all the time. But how can I make her understand that?

  “It must be so interesting,” she prompts.

  Normally, I’d think she was making fun of me, but she seems…wistful. Kind of envious, even. “No. It’s not interesting. It sucks. Why would you think that?” For the first time, I wonder if she might be a very special kind of stupid.

  “Things happen to you!” she bursts out, suddenly agitated. “Things you don’t expect. I mean, look at me. I walk into a room and I know I can have things if I want them. I walk into a garden and am given a free flower crown for no reason. Wherever I go, foods I like are sold. Whatever I want just falls into my hands. It’s so. Damn. Boring!” She fires each word off like a missile.

  “Wait, those flower crowns aren’t free for everyone?”

  “No! They cost ten marks. But I’ve never paid for one, not even once, in all the times I’ve come here. I even tried to insist once. He just wouldn’t take my money!” She blows out a breath, looking incensed.

  “You’re mad that people give you things for free?” Yeah, this girl is definitely a few asteroids short of a shower.

  “Yes! I’m tired of life being so predictable. I mean, when I walked into the pub yesterday and there you were choking on a tater tot, I was amazed. I bet you had no idea that would happen, and then it did! I sure had no idea I’d see that. Stuff like that doesn’t happen around me.”

  “You’re saying you’re preternaturally lucky or something?” I crinkle my forehead, staring at her.

  “Yes! It’s a curse.”

  I fall silent, staring at her.

  She sighs and sinks down into her chair. She looks lumpy and disgruntled. “I know it sounds stupid. But imagine your life as a plain white tunnel and all you do is walk down it, forever and ever and ever. Nothing changes. It’s perfectly pleasant, but nothing ever happens. There’s no excitement. No mystery. No surprises”

  It sounds good to me. “I’m trying to see your life as a bad thing. My life is a tunnel full of trapdoors and fall hazards and plague germs. I know I’ll never get even halfway down it because of all the obstacles in my way.”

  Greta straightens slowly. “I’d trade you. I’d swap a shortened lifespan for some excitement.”

  “I’d be happy with your plain white tunnel.”

  Greta makes a pouty duck sort of face, which sounds not at all cute, but it actually is. “Has anything bad happened to you when you’re with me?”

  I think about it. I had a good time the night I first met her. The next morning, she’d arrived just as Pinky saved my life. So, actually, not dying was a good thing that happened to me. And nothing actually bad happened at the garden. I’m surprised to answer, “No.”

  “And since I met you, I’ve had surprises. I don’t know what to expect with you.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that, so I make the manly choice of changing the subject. “We should get back to the Second Chance.”

  She looks disappointed, but seems to reconsider, then beams at me. “Okay.”

  We almost make it back to the spaceport when she freezes in mid-step. “Oh! Your souvenir.”

  “I don’t need one.”

  “I insist.” She pivots and darts toward a vendor stand that—surprise, surprise—just happens to be several feet away.

  Reluctantly, I join her, grimacing at the silly I’m a Posy Boy t-shirts and hats. If she tries to make me accept something like that, she’ll be in for another surprise today.

  But she whispers something to the vendor, and he saunters to the back of the stand and bends to reach into a box beneath a table. He drops the item onto her palm and her fingers close around it before I see more than a flash of green. She reaches toward her pocket and the smiling man waves her off. She gives her thanks and we’re on our way again.

  It isn’t until we’re just about to pass through the docking gate to board the Second Chance that she digs into her pocket and holds her fist out to me.

  I open my hand and she drops a shiny green stone onto it. It’s warm from her body heat and just the right size to curl my fingers around.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a luck stone. You keep it with you, and rub it when you feel worried. Then it gives you luck. And since I carried it for a few minutes, I figure it should have extra luck now.”

  It’s the sweetest gift anyone had ever given me. “Thank you. I wish I had a bad luck stone to give you.” Which sounds stupid, but she knows what I mean.

  She smiles sagely and as we board the ship, she says, “We’ll see.”

  ***

  After being out with Greta, I feel like being daring. I know it’s crazy, but I want to test my boundaries. Go wild. I bravely take a different route back to my cabin.

  That may not sound like much, but for me it’s huge. Taking the same path, so I can anticipate any potential hazards, is ingrained in me. It’s one of the habits my therapist had been trying to break me of for the past few years. After just two days, Greta has succeeded. Take that, Dr. Ramalama!

  My eyes dart across the unknown corridor, side to side, up and down, watching for ha
zards. I’m being daring, not stupid. I haven’t forgotten who I am and where I come from.

  At the junction to the corridor leading to my cabin, I spot a red sign. It reads Red sign means bad. Do not do the bad.

  I don’t find the sign helpful. Actually, I find it terrifying. My previous sense of adventure evaporates as I look around for “the bad.” What would that be?

  A loud clank makes me spin around. I’d like to say it was a cool, ninja sort of spin, but in fact, I yelp like a Chihuahua that’s been stepped on.

  Gus stands there, holding a chaffing dish and looking at me in alarm. “Are you okay, sir?”

  “Yes! Sorry. You just startled me.”

  “My apologies, sir. The dish slipped.”

  “Oh, no reason to apologize. Not your fault.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He continues on his way.

  “Gus,” I call after him.

  “Yes?” He pauses again.

  I point to the sign. “What does that mean?”

  He glances at it. “To be honest, no one knows. We should probably take it down.”

  “Probably a good idea,” I agree.

  Gus hurries out of sight and I continue on to my cabin, only mildly reassured. I will avoid the Do not do the bad corridor in the future. No reason to tempt fate.

  ***

  I take some time to decompress and process the day’s events. The luck stone lays on my little fold-out table while I sit in the chair, going through some messages from work. I’ll need to spend the evening creating some regression analyses, but that’s fine with me. The work will be soothing after the eventful day I’ve had.

  At the moment, though, I require food. I consider ordering in, but find myself wanting to see Pinky. I pull myself together and go to the pub.

  Though it feels much later than midday to me, the pub is full of the lunch rush. Pinky spots me as soon as I come through the door, and leans against the bar, waiting for me to sit.

  “You look too serious,” is her greeting to me. She spins away and returns a couple minutes later with a curvy glass full of a blush-pink beverage and garnished with an orange slice.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “A Happy Day.”

  I sip it and tasted yuzu, passionfruit, and some other fruity flavors I can’t identify. It’s carbonated and tasted…zippy. I know that’s not a flavor, but that’s the only way to describe it.

  “It’s good.”

  “That particular combination of fruits has an uplifting effect,” she says.

  “Really? Some sort of drink alchemy to affect food?”

  She nods.

  “Do you ever use your alchemy for evil, rather than good?”

  A tiny smile forms on her lips, but she says nothing.

  “I see.” I don’t know if it’s the Happy Day or Pinky, but my mood lifts. “Do you know how to make a Screaming Demon?”

  “Sure. But it’s hard on the stomach.”

  I try to think of an obscure Earth drink to see if I can stump her. “How about a Flaming Butterfly?”

  “Yes.”

  “A Bruised Mortician?” I make that one up, just to see her reaction.

  “Yes, but I don’t stock formaldehyde. The Ontopians are the only ones who drink it and only one has ever come on board this ship.”

  I stare at her. Raising my glass, I say, “You are one heck of a woman, Pinky.”

  She leans forward and loudly whispers, “And they’ll never find the bodies to prove it.”

  I pause in mid-sip, trying to figure out if she’s serious or making a joke.

  She watches me with a smirk. Joking, then. Probably.

  “Do you believe in luck?” I didn’t expect to ask that, but the question jumps out of me on its own.

  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 nothing 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 is, whether she intends to or not, asking 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.

  “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?

  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.