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

by M. D. Cooper

  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.

  Chapter 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. “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. “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 we 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.

  THE END

  — — —

  Want to read more by Zen DiPietro?

  Dragonfire Station series

  A lost memory. Lethal skills. The gut-deep sense that something is wrong. Dragonfire Station is a sci-fi thriller series with twists, action, and characters worth rooting for.

  Book 1: http://smarturl.it/pmxixj

  Book 2: http://smarturl.it/pdh30y

  Book 3: http://smarturl.it/5midxc

  About the Author

  Zen DiPietro is a lifelong bookworm, dreamer, writer, and a mom of two. Perhaps most importantly, a Browncoat Trekkie Whovian. Also red-haired, left-handed, and a vegetarian geek. Absolutely terrible at conforming. A recovering gamer, but we won’t talk about that. Particular loves include badass heroines, British accents, and the smell of Band-Aids.

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  Gli+ch

  by Drew Avera

  Ben has a problem with authority… and people… and life in general. Lady luck has never smiled his way, but things are finally about to change. Maybe.

  The great war may be over, but that didn’t stop Ben from getting his left arm ripped off in a training accident. Now, discharged from the military with a twitchy cybernetic replacement, he’s at rock bottom, looking for any opportunity to start over.

  Just when he’s contemplating whether or not he can use his robotic arm to strangle himself, he sees an ad promoting a new mining colony on Europa. A new life, good pay, and respect await him if he can just get there from Mars. The hot girl in the ad may have helped, too.

  With a rickety ship, an amorous android, and only a fraction of a prayer, he sets off to leave the only world he's known in pursuit of riches.

  But space isn’t a place for the weak, or the terminally unlucky, and when calamity strikes right out of the gate, Ben starts to think getting to Europa may take a farking miracle.

  If he makes it, and if his luck doesn't kill him, then he'll finally get what's coming to him. He better just hope he can handle it.

  chap+er one

  Rain fell like water shooting from a fire hose as Benjamin Dale made his way to the terminal. Ever since the New York burnings, the city looked darker, and the rain clouds weren’t helping in Ben’s opinion. He ran his hand through his sopping wet hair and felt the cool water flow down the back of his neck and under his shirt, sending shivers down his spine. There was a better day to conduct this kind of business, but Ben was in a hurry. He already had to wait for the weekend, a stupid three-day holiday where the government shut down while the rest of the living had to make do without any of the support departments affected by the mandatory day off. It was Liberty Day, a completely contrived holiday in the vein of Independence Day, but earned by the vanity of the rise of a third political party some two-hundred years prior. The fact that party ceased to exist—or any party for that matter—was not lost on him. Perhaps the government just likes taking the unnecessary time off, Ben thought, but time is money and it’s about damn time I start making mine.

  The terminal doors were locked, preventing him from getting out of the rain. He looked in through the shaded glass doors and saw the employees gathered around, shaking their dicks or whatever they liked to call it when they stood around talking about nothing. Ben grumbled as he looked at his watch. “Five minutes,” he said loudly, hoping his voice would carry through the thick bulletproof glass. “You can’t give me five farking minutes?”

  One of the men looked at him, a large, friendly smile on his face, and simply waved. He may as well have tossed up his middle finger and dropped a turd on the floor; at least then Ben would have felt like he was being taken seriously. As it was, he thought they were keeping the doors locked for spite. “Useless government employees,” he muttered, turning to look at the cityscape as the rain poured violently onto the pavement. Puddles formed, rippling as the raindrops pummeled into the growing pools. The hushing sound of the rain falling sounded like the faint groans of faraway jet engines to Ben’s ears, reminding him of why he was here and why it was important to stay instead of giving up in defeat. Today is the day my life is going to change for the better.

  Ben’s watch chirped. It was eight-o’clock in the morning and time for the terminal to open. He turned to look at the same disinterested crowd conversing, minus one of the members who now walked towards the front door leading into the building. Of course, the man had to open the door on the other side of the entrance from Ben. Jerk, he thought as the smiling man came to the door and inserted the key, fumbling with it for several seconds before successfully unlocking it.

  “I’m sorry for your wait, sir,” the man said, a thick accent revealing he was a European immigrant.

  “If you were sorry, you would have opened this door first,” Ben said sardonically as he walked past the man and his plastic, government issued smile.

  The man said something politely indignant, but he was already too far from him to hear what it was; or to even care. He made his way to the Port Authority counter, his boots squishing
with every step. The chubby old man at the counter wore a New American flag on his lapel along with an Army Veteran pin clasped onto his tie. He had the faraway stare of a man more preoccupied with his own thoughts than of things currently happening around him, but he greeted Ben as the young man came to a stop.

  “Yes, sir, how can I help you?”

  “Prior Army?” Ben asked.

  The old man nodded. “I was infantry, did my time ‘til they took my leg. I would’ve gave more, but it’s hard to fight when you’re hobbling along, bleeding all over the place.”

  Ben smiled. “Yeah, I gave them my arm and they gave me this gli+chy piece of work for my troubles.” He lifted his prosthetic; the synchro motors whirring as he modeled it to the older gentleman.

  “Nice. Better than the boot-pole they gave me. It costs high-dollar to get the good stuff.” He lifted his pants leg and showed what decent money could buy. “The farking payment costs almost as much as my rent, but at least I can walk without wanting to eat a bullet. What are you here for?” the question reminded Ben of the reason he spent half an hour in the rain getting pissed on by the weather.

  “I need an off-world permit.”

  The man nodded and scrolled his fingers along the tablet in front of him. “Reason for travel?”

  “Business.”

  The man looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. “You don’t look like a contractor or a scientist, kid. I need a little more information if you expect to get a permit from me.”

  Ben hesitated, but answered the man anyway. “I read up on a new business venture the other day. There’s a company that started up a mining colony on Europa to harvest ice to take back to Mars for the terraforming initiative. The first ones there get to stake their claim first and I plan on being in the front of the line.”