Pew! Pew! - Bite My Shiny Metal Pew!

by M. D. Cooper

  “I don’t think so.” Pinky frowns. “She’s different with you. She’s been different since meeting you, too. I think you’re something new and different to her. I think she’s actually interested.”

  I blink at her several times. I suspected that my date with Greta was a real date, but to have it confirmed by someone as realistic as Pinky is something else altogether.

  “Wow,” is all I can say.

  “Yeah.” Pinky’s tone is all agreement. “So don’t screw this up, pal, or you’ll regret it forever.”

  Well, that’s quite a pep talk. Instead of feeling invigorated, I feel the spectre of the grim reaper on my shoulder.

  She slaps my knee lightly. “Don’t look so serious. Just be yourself. Natural. Have fun with her. If you two are right, it’ll happen.”

  I feel better about that. “Thanks, Pinky.”

  “You got it, pal.”

  We sit in companionable silence for a moment. It’s just long enough for me to notice how ridiculously outsized Pinky is for my teeny little cabin. She looks like a basketball player sitting on a preschooler’s chair. If she were to yawn and stretch, she’d probably punch out my lightstream.

  “What are your quarters like?” I ask.

  “Bigger,” she says. “Pinker. And way cooler. Although,” she looks thoughtful for a moment, “your Renard paintings are awesome.”

  I look to my pair of robot-western paintings, and I’m proud of them. Not just because Pinky thinks they’re cool, but because I thought they were and I bought them from the artist himself. To me, they are a symbol of my entire adventure in space.

  “I’d better go reopen the bar. People get pissy when they want a drink and can’t get one.”

  “I’ll come help,” I say.

  Pinky holds up a staying hand. “Nah. You hang out. Think about your plan for the evening. Think about just having a good time, and going with whatever happens. Get yourself in the right headspace.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  She gives me a gentle pound on the shoulder as she unfolds herself from the chair. “No problem. Just remember to name your first kid after me, if you ever have one.”

  Truth be told, I think about that for a long time before I switch to getting myself into a go-with-the-flow headspace.

  Chapter 3

  When I get to Greta’s cabin, she’s wearing a pale-green dress that stops just above her knee. It’s cute and sexy and modest all at the same time, and is just so very Greta, because she’s all good things at once, too.

  She’s ordered pizza for us, both Earth-style and Garbdorian-style, and we both have some of each while chatting about this and that. Then we watch a movie—some Garbdorian romance, which is a little far-fetched but has enough humor to keep me interested.

  We chat. We eat. Briefly, during the movie, she shifts and her shoulder is against mine. It’s nice.

  I’d like to be able to describe some epic scene where we declare our love and one thing leads to another and suddenly there are fireworks and rockets and other thinly veiled imagery. But it’s just a very nice evening, and I’m not sorry. A mere pleasant evening with the woman I love is more than I ever hoped to get out of life.

  Our fingers don’t brush one another, and I we don’t get into some big tickle fight that becomes a whole romantic interlude. But I’m in her cabin, which is about twice the size of mine and decorated in sunny yellows and oranges, and I feel like she’s really let me into her life for the first time.

  It’s a beginning, and that’s an amazing thing.

  Afterward, she sees me off at the door, and we have a moment of awkwardness after saying goodnight.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I say, ducking my head to hide my uncertainty.

  “Okay. We can have breakfast at Pinky’s.” Her eyes are big and beautiful, and I feel like she’s kind of inviting me to kiss her, but I heed Pinky’s warning.

  I wait.

  Greta’s smile suddenly brightens into a grin and she steps closer, then kisses my cheek. “Goodnight, Charlie.” She looks at me from under her lashes, looking so happy, and I know this is not a chaste sort of kiss. It is an opening salvo kind of kiss.

  “Goodnight,” I say as the door closes.

  I owe Pinky one. She was right. Any other guy would have kissed Greta first. But not me. I’m the one guy who wouldn’t, and that means I’m the one who tempted Greta to kiss him first.

  I am the man.

  And Pinky’s a genius.

  ***

  In the morning, I wake, dress, and feel like this is a new beginning for me. I pass right by the dining room, forks and all, and don’t even hurry my step. When I get to Pinky’s, Greta’s already inside, eating a waffle sandwich.

  It’s a Greta thing. It’s two waffles with eggs and sausages and chocolate chips inside, and all the innards have been coated with candied sweet potatoes. The kitchen makes them special for her, and good thing, because I think the mere sweetness factor would choke most people.

  “Yep. I have a real appetite this morning.” She takes a big bite, which smears her cheeks with orange.

  Pinky shoots a look at me but I do a it-wasn’t-me shrug. Pinky squints at me hard before returning my shrug.

  “Maybe it’s this upcoming movie role,” Greta muses after a sip of her juice.

  “What are you playing?” Pinky asks as she mixes a drink.

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” Greta looks embarrassed. “It’s just a little walk-on role. The lead of the movie has just broken up with his girlfriend and as he walks off into the crowd, he bumps into me. He says, ‘Excuse me,’ and I say ‘Don’t worry about it,’ and then the movie ends.”

  “Shouldn’t take too long then, I guess,” Pinky says. She sets a plate of eggs and potatoes in front of me. Apparently, that’s what I’m having for breakfast today.

  I’ve found it’s easier to just let Pinky give me what she thinks I want. She’s usually right.

  Greta chuckles. “No, it’ll just be a few hours of shooting. It’s nothing. I just think it would be fun to be on a movie set.”

  I eat quickly and excuse myself to get to work. I’d taken the previous day off to mentally prepare myself for my date with Greta, so I’ll have a lot to keep me busy.

  After slaving the day away with statistical analyses, I order my dinner to my cabin and plan to watch a movie. Or part of one, anyway. Just enough of the beginning to help me fall asleep. I’ve always found it pleasant to drift off with the sound of robot cowboys defending their territory in the background.

  To my surprise, Gus himself delivers my dinner. Gus is the head of service on the Second Chance and not just some porter. He doesn’t handle food. When I see him outside my door holding a tray, though, I immediately suspect something is amiss.

  “Here’s your dinner, Mr. Kenny. I hope you’ll find it satisfactory.”

  “I always do, Gus,” I assure him. “Your kitchen staff is stellar.”

  He gives me a tight little bow and looks to one side, then the other, with a furtive look. Something is definitely going on here.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” I ask.

  He hesitates. “I hate to ask, but I’m in a desperate situation. Can I come in for a moment?”

  For ultra-formal Gus to ask to come in, there must be something serious going on.

  “Of course.” I take the tray from him and step back, leaving space for him to enter my cabin.

  Putting the tray on my table, I ask, “What’s going on?”

  Still he hesitates. He pulls his fancy hat off and holds it in his hand, worrying the brim of it with nervous fingers. “The thing is…” he clears his throat. “What I mean is, you’re friends with Pinky, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I made her angry a few weeks ago. I didn’t intend to.”

  “What happened?” I’m aware that Pinky has never been fond of what she considers Gus’s superior attitude.

  “I said the wrong thing. A port
er asked me to get him a drink, and I was on my way to make a report to the captain and, in my distraction, I asked him if I looked like a bartender. I didn’t realize Pinky was nearby.”

  Oh boy. Yeah, implying that a bartender is somehow a lowly figure would definitely piss Pinky off. “I see.”

  Gus rushes on, “I didn’t intend it as a slight. People choose to travel on this ship just for the drinks she mixes. She’s a legend in the Chance Fleet. I just wasn’t thinking, that’s all. I have a lot of pressure on me.”

  He hangs his head, looking down at his hat.

  “Okay,” I say slowly, trying to put this together with his need to talk to me. “So what did she do?”

  “I think she highjacked the elevator. I can’t prove it, but all that Chance 3000 nonsense happened right after I made that comment, and hasn’t gone away since. I’ve spent more hours than I can count soothing agitated guests and trying to get technical support to repair the elevator. Somehow, every diagnostic comes up just fine. No tech can ever replicate the problem.”

  I stifle a laugh. The idea of programmer after programmer checking out the elevator and finding it perfectly operational when it’s actually stopping for dance parties and moments of contemplation strikes me as funny.

  Poor Gus.

  “I was thinking, since you’re friends and all,” Gus ventures, “maybe you could talk to her for me. Help me get the elevator back to normal.”

  This is tricky. I’m in between two important figures who run this ship. “I promise to talk to her about it. I can’t guarantee it will make any difference, though. Maybe it isn’t even her.”

  “Maybe,” Gus allows, though I can tell he doesn’t believe it’s a possibility. “But if you’d talk to her about it, I’d be grateful.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  He bows enthusiastically. “Thank you, Mr. Kenny! You have my undying gratitude.”

  “Then, do you think you could call me Charlie?” I’d rather he address me informally.

  But Gus looks horrified. “Like a sectarian rube? I’m sorry, sir, I simply cannot.”

  He stalks out of my room, chin high. He is a proud, proud man, that Gus. That’s probably the attitude that got himself saddled with a dance-party elevator.

  ***

  The week leading up to our stop on Mars is pleasantly uneventful. I get a lot of work done, watch some movies, and Pinky teaches me a couple more drink recipes.

  I don’t see much of Greta, though, and that’s a real downside. She’s occupied with her own work, and preparing for her movie role. I don’t know how many ways there are to say, “Don’t worry about it,” but it must be a lot.

  On the big day, she tells us to come to the set at noon. She’s arranged passes for us and everything. She leaves a few hours before, saying they do photography and stuff beforehand, for promotional reasons.

  The time crawls. I’m more eager than I expected to see the movie set. Or maybe it’s just that Greta will be in the movie. I do some work, but I’m not as focused as I should be so I put it aside. I tidy my cabin, but that only takes about a minute.

  I can’t even go help Pinky in the bar. She’s taking a day off. I might as well take a walk. The exercise is good for me.

  It’s rare for me to have a chance to be bored. I usually keep quite busy. I do an entire circuit around the ship, and then take a second, slower lap. Along the way, I scrutinize the ship in a way I haven’t before. I admire the neat rows of identical doors, the immaculately clean deck plates, the evenness of the rivets on the bulkheads.

  This is a good ship. Well-designed, pleasing to the eye, and completely comfortable. It feels like a real home to me.

  Noon finally rolls around and I meet Pinky at the elevator. As we get in, I consider what Gus asked me and whether I should broach the subject now.

  I wait for the Chance 3000 to start some weird crap, but it takes us down to Mars without making a sound. It’s a little eerie.

  We descend beneath the planet’s surface and I feel a little claustrophobic. Finally, the doors open and, again, the elevator makes no sound.

  “That was odd,” I say as we step onto a moving sidewalk.

  “It didn’t do anything,” Pinky answers. “How’s that odd?”

  “That elevator has been so strange lately. It’s established a habit of it, to the point that I’ve come to expect it. So when it doesn’t do something, that seems odd.”

  Pinky grunts, looking uninterested.

  “You don’t know anything about the elevator, do you?” I venture.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I thought maybe it was like the poorly translated signs you have up around the ship. You know, something you’d find funny.” I don’t think I’m doing a good job of tackling this subject.

  Pinky stares at me. “You think I could do all that to an elevator?”

  “I think you can do whatever you decide to do,” I answer in all honestly.

  She frowns at me, but then her expression morphs into a smirk. “Good. I like that.”

  The moving sidewalk ends and we need to switch to another one. I move toward the one with the blue stripe along its length, according to Greta’s directions.

  “You sure it’s not the yellow line?” Pinky points in the other direction.

  “Positive. Blue line, all the way down. Then there’s supposed to be someone to greet us and take us the rest of the way.”

  She shrugs. “All right, if you say so.”

  “It’s definitely blue,” I insist.

  “I said okay. Jeez.” She steps onto the blue line with the look of someone who has been nagged most heinously.

  I also notice that she has sidestepped the issue of the elevator, which is suspicious. But I decide to let it drop. For now.

  One line leads to another and then a young human guy meets us, as Greta promised. He ushers us to a room with lots of cameras, an overabundance of people, and a strange, charged atmosphere.

  A sign is lit up with Live Set. A stream of people cross what looks like a street intersection on Earth. Except, of course, we’re a mile below the surface on Mars.

  Hooray for movie magic.

  I spot Greta. She’s walking along, wearing an expensive-looking suit and looking important. A tall guy bumps into her and says, “Excuse me.”

  Wow, we arrived at the perfect time to hear Greta deliver her line.

  She looks up at the guy with a cursory smile and says, “Don’t worry about it.” She barely breaks her stride.

  “Wait…” The guy seems stunned. “Elizabeth?” He touches her shoulder.

  Greta turns, and her smile has slipped. She pulls her sunglasses down to peer over them. “Can I help you?”

  “Elizabeth?” he says again.

  “Do we know each other?” Greta asks.

  He nods. “Yes, I’m Rob! Remember?”

  She frowns, then a light of recognition dawns in her eyes. “Rob? Oh my gosh! I didn’t recognize you!”

  She flings herself into his arms and there they are, hugging and laughing while the crowd streams around them.

  “And cut!” A tall, skinny man shouts. “Fantastic, you two! Greta, you’re a natural.”

  The entire space erupts into a flurry of activity. I can’t even see Greta because there are so many people and so much equipment moving to and fro.

  Greta appears, hugging Pinky then me. “You made it! Did you see?”

  “We saw,” I confirm. “You were great. Like a real movie star.”

  “Looks like they expanded your part.” Pinky observes.

  Greta beams at us. “Yes! They liked the chemistry between me and the lead actor, and decided to tie me into his backstory. His long-lost love from high school. How fun is that?”

  “Very cool,” I say.

  Pinky shrugs noncommittally.

  “Want to meet him? Glen’s a real pro, and a nice guy, too.”

  “Glen?” I ask.

  “Glen Gr
esham, the actor I was just working with. Don’t tell me you didn’t recognize him.”

  I shrug. If he’s not in robot westerns, I’m not likely to know him.

  Greta makes a sound of exasperation. “He’s been in lots of movies lately. He’s the it-guy for romantic dramas.”

  “I don’t watch many of those,” I say carefully.

  Pinky is less tactful. “Bunch of stupid kissy junk. If stuff doesn’t blow up and no one gets shot, it’s not a movie worth watching.”

  Greta deflates a little. “Oh. Well, okay. Let’s just go then. Do you want to do some looking around before we go back to the ship?”

  “We just got here,” Pinky says. I guess that means she’d rather stay for a while.

  “Actually, I feel claustrophobic down here,” I say. “Why don’t you two have some fun, and I’ll go back on my own.”

  It could be risky, me traveling on my own, but I’m reluctant to make them go right back to the Second Chance just because I don’t care for being underground.

  I mean, it doesn’t even make sense. Being underground is no more perilous than being on a space ship. In fact, it’s far less so. But I just don’t like it down here, and there’s no rationalizing with the kind of fear that makes you feel like your bones are trying to get outside your skin.”

  “That’s okay,” Greta says. “I’ve been down here lots of times. I’ll go back with you.”

  Pinky frowns at us. “It won’t be as much fun without you two. But I’ll do my best anyway.”

  Before we can get off the set, I hear a voice behind us. “Who is that?”

  Must be some big star or something. We keep walking.

  “You there! The tall one! Please wait!”

  We pause, exchanging looks. Do they mean Pinky? We turn around to see the director hurrying our way. His eyes are glued to Pinky.

  “Who’s your agent?” she asks.

  Pinky gives her the look that Pinky reserves for people who aren’t very smart. “I don’t need an agent in my line of work.”

  The director, a fairly nondescript human with messy brown hair, blinks in puzzlement. “You’re not a stunt actor?”

  Pinky smirks at her. “I’m a stunt liver.” Then she frowns. “Not, as in, like gizzards and stuff. I meant I live my life that way. That came out differently when I said it than it sounded in my head.”