Redshirts

by John Scalzi

  “They did have food laws in the twenty-first century,” Hanson said. “Here in the United States, anyway.”

  “I’ll pass,” Kerensky said.

  “Let him starve,” Hester said, and reached for the last piece. Kerensky’s hand shot out and he grabbed it.

  “Got it,” Dahl said, and turned his phone—his twenty-first-century phone—around, showing the article to the rest of them. “‘Chronicles of the Intrepid.’” He turned the phone back around to him. “Shows every Friday at nine on something called the Corwin Action Network, which is apparently something called a ‘basic cable channel.’ It started in 2007, which means it’s now in its sixth season.”

  “This is completely ridiculous,” Kerensky said, around his pizza.

  Dahl looked over to him, and then pressed the screen to open up another article. “And playing Lieutenant Anatoly Kerensky on Chronicles of the Intrepid is an actor named Marc Corey,” he said, flipping the screen around to show Kerensky the picture of a smiling doppelgänger in a stylish blazer and open-collared dress shirt. “Born in 1985 in Chatsworth, California. I wonder if that’s anywhere near here.”

  Kerensky grabbed the phone and read the article sullenly. “This doesn’t prove anything,” he said. “We don’t know how accurate any of this information is. For all we know, this”—he scrolled up on the phone screen to find a label—“this Wikipedia information database here is compiled by complete idiots.” He handed back the phone.

  “We could try to track down this Corey fellow,” Hanson said.

  “I want to try someone else first,” Dahl said, and started poking at his phone again. “If Marc Corey is a regular on a show, he’s probably going to be hard to get to. I think we should probably aim lower.”

  “What do you mean?” Duvall said.

  “I mean, I think we should start with me,” Dahl said, and then turned the phone around again, to a picture of what appeared to be his own face. “Meet Brian Abnett.”

  Dahl’s friends looked at the picture. “It’s a little unsettling, isn’t it?” Hanson said, after a minute. “Looking at a picture of someone who is exactly like you but isn’t.”

  “No kidding,” Dahl said. “Of course, you all have your own people, too.”

  At that, the rest of them started to power up their own phones.

  “What does Wikipedia say about him?” Kerensky sneered. He did not have his own phone.

  “Nothing,” Dahl said. “He apparently doesn’t meet the standard. I followed the link on the Chronicles of the Intrepid page to a database called IMDB, which had information about the actors on the series. He has a page there.”

  “So how do we contact him?” Duvall said.

  “It doesn’t have contact information on that page,” Dahl said. “But let me put his name in the search field.”

  “I just found myself,” Hanson said. “I’m some guy named Chad.”

  “I knew a Chad once,” Hester said. “He used to beat me up.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hanson said.

  “It wasn’t you,” Hester said. “Either of you.”

  “He has his own page,” Dahl said.

  “Chad?” Hanson asked.

  “No, Brian Abnett,” Dahl said. He scrolled through the page until he found a tab that said ‘Contact.’” Dahl pressed it and an address popped up.

  “It’s for his agency,” Dahl said.

  “Wow, actors had agents even then,” Duvall said.

  “Even now, you mean,” Dahl said, and pressed his screen again. “His agency is only a couple of miles from here. We can walk it.”

  “What are we going to do when we get there?” Duvall asked.

  “I’m going to get his address from them,” Dahl said.

  “You think they’ll give it you?” Hester asked.

  “Of course they will,” Dahl said. “I’m him.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Okay, I see him,” Duvall said, pointing up Camarillo Street. “He’s the one on the bicycle.”

  “Are you sure?” Dahl asked.

  “I know what you look like, even wearing a bicycle helmet,” Duvall said. “Trust me.”

  “Now, remember not to freak him out,” Dahl said. He had on a baseball cap he had bought and was holding a copy of the day’s Los Angeles Times in his hand. The two of them were standing in front of the condominium complex Brian Abnett lived in.

  “You’re telling me not to freak him out,” she said. “You’re the one who’s his clone.”

  “I don’t want him freaking out until he sees me,” Dahl said.

  “Don’t worry, I’m good with men,” Duvall said. “Now go stand over there and try not to look…” She paused.

  “Try not to look what?” asked Dahl.

  “Try not to look so clone-y,” Duvall said. “At least not for a couple more minutes.” Dahl grinned, stepped back and raised his newspaper.

  “Hey,” Dahl heard Duvall say a minute later. He peeked over the top of the newspaper just enough to see her walk up to Brian Abnett, who was getting off his bike and unlatching his helmet.

  “Hey,” Abnett said, and then took another look at her. “Wait, don’t tell me,” he said, smiling. “We’ve worked together.”

  “Maybe,” Duvall said, coyly.

  “Recently,” Abnett said.

  “Maybe,” Duvall said again.

  “That hemorrhoid cream commercial,” Abnett said.

  “No,” Duvall said, flatly.

  “Wait!” Abnett said, pointing. “Chronicles of the Intrepid. A few months ago. You and I did that scene together where we were being chased by killer robots. Tell me I’m right.”

  “It’s very close to what I remember,” Duvall said.

  “Thank you,” Abnett said. “I hate it when I forget people I’ve worked with. You’re still doing work with them, right? I think I’ve seen you around the set since then.”

  “You could say so,” Duvall said. “What about you?”

  “I’ve got a small character arc on the show,” Abnett said. “It’s only been a few shots through the season, and of course they’re killing off my character a couple of episodes from now, but until then it’s nice work.” He motioned at the condominium building. “Means I get to stay here through the year, anyway.”

  “So they’re going to kill you off?” Duvall asked. “You’re sure about that?”

  “That’s what the agent tells me,” Abnett said. “She says they’re still writing the episode, but it’s pretty much a done deal. Which is fine, since she wants to put me up for a couple of film roles and staying on Intrepid will just get in the way of that.”

  “Sad about the character, though,” Duvall said.

  “Well, that’s science fiction television for you, though,” Abnett said. “Someone’s got to be the red shirt.”

  “The what?” Duvall said.

  “The red shirt,” Abnett said. “You know, in the original Star Trek, they always had Kirk and Bones and Spock and then some poor dude in a red shirt who got vaporized before the first commercial. The moral of the story was not to wear a red shirt. Or go on away missions when you’re the only one whose name isn’t on the opening credits.”

  “Ah,” Duvall said.

  “You never watched Star Trek?” Abnett asked, smiling.

  “It was a little before my time,” Duvall said.

  “So what brings you to my neighborhood, uh…,” Abnett said.

  “Maia,” Duvall said.

  “Maia,” Abnett repeated. “You aren’t looking at the condo that’s for sale in the building, are you? I probably shouldn’t say this, but I think you might want to look at other places. The last guy in that condo I’m pretty sure was making meth in the bathtub. It’s a miracle the entire building didn’t go up.”

  “Oh, I won’t be staying for very long,” Duvall said. “Actually, I came looking for you.”

  “Really,” Abnett said, with an expression that flickered between being flattered that an attractive woman came l
ooking for him, and worry that the woman, who might be crazy, knew where he lived.

  Duvall read the flicker of expression perfectly. “I’m not stalking you,” she assured Abnett.

  “Okay, that’s a relief,” Abnett said.

  Duvall motioned with her head toward Dahl, still semiobscured by the hat and newspaper. “In fact, my friend over there is a big fan of yours and he just wanted to meet you for a second. If that’s okay. It would really make his day.”

  “Yeah, okay, sure,” Abnett said, still looking at Duvall. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Andy Dahl,” Duvall said.

  “Really?” Abnett said. “That’s so weird. That’s actually the name of my character on Chronicles of the Intrepid.”

  “That’s why he wants to meet you,” Duvall said.

  “And it’s not the only thing we share in common,” Dahl said. He walked up to Abnett, took off the cap and dropped the Times. “Hello, Brian. I’m you. In red shirt form.”

  * * *

  “I’m still having trouble with this,” Abnett said. He was sitting in the Best Western suite with the crew members of the Intrepid. “I mean, really really really having trouble with this.”

  “You think you’re having trouble,” Hester said. “Think about us. At least you’re not fictional.”

  “Do you know how unreal this is?” Abnett said.

  “We’ve been living with this for a while now, yes,” Dahl said.

  “So you understand why I’m freaking out about it,” Abnett said.

  “We could do another freckle check if you like,” Dahl said, referring to the moment, shortly after he introduced himself, where Abnett checked every visible freckle, mole and blemish on both of them to confirm that they matched exactly.

  “No, I’ve just got to sit with this,” Abnett said. Hester looked over to Dahl, quickly to Abnett and then back to Dahl, conveying the message The other you is a flake with his expression. Dahl shrugged. Actors were actors.

  “You know what convinces me that you might be telling the truth,” Abnett said.

  “The fact you’re sitting in a room with an exact copy of yourself?” Hester said.

  “No,” Abnett said. “Well, yes. That. But what’s really helping me wrap my head around the idea you’re telling the truth is him.” Abnett pointed at Kerensky.

  “Me?” Kerensky said, surprised. “Why me?”

  “Because the real Marc Corey wouldn’t be caught dead in a Best Western attempting to prank an extra whose name he can’t be bothered to remember,” Abnett said. “No offense, but the other you is a complete asshole.”

  “So’s this one,” Hester said.

  “Hey,” Kerensky said.

  “Having another me around is hard to swallow,” Abnett said, and pointed to Kerensky again. “But another one of him? That’s actually easier to accept.”

  “You believe us, then,” Duvall said.

  “I don’t know if I believe you,” Abnett said. “What I do know is that this is very definitely the strangest damn thing that’s ever happened to me, and I want to find out what happens next.”

  “So you’ll help us,” Dahl said.

  “I want to help you, but I don’t know if I can help you,” Abnett said. “Look, I’m just an extra. They allow me onto the set for work, but it’s not like I can bring anyone else in with me. I get a few lines with the regular cast, but otherwise we’re told not to bother them. And I don’t talk to the show runners or other producers at all. I couldn’t get you in to see any of them if I wanted to. And even if I did, I don’t think any of them would believe you. This is Hollywood. We make things up for a living. And the story you’re telling is completely nuts. I tell it to anyone, they’ll just throw me off the set.”

  “That might keep you from getting killed a couple of episodes from now,” Hanson said, to Dahl.

  Abnett shook his head. “No, they’ll just recast the part with someone who looks enough like me to work,” he said. “You’ll still be killed off. Unless you stay here.”

  Dahl shook his head. “We expire in five days.”

  “Expire?” Abnett asked.

  “It’s complicated,” Dahl said. “It involves atoms.”

  “Five days is not a lot of time,” Abnett said. “Especially if you want to kill a show.”

  “Tell us something we don’t know,” Hester said.

  “Maybe you can’t help us directly,” Duvall said. “But do you know someone who could? Even as an extra, you know the people who work high up the food chain.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you,” Abnett said. “I don’t. I don’t know anyone on the show who could move you up the ladder.” His gaze rested on Kerensky, and he suddenly cocked his head. “But you know what, maybe I know someone outside the show who could help you.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Kerensky asked, unsettled by Abnett’s gaze.

  “Are those the only clothes you have?” Abnett asked.

  “I wasn’t given the option of packing,” Kerensky said. “Why? What’s wrong with the uniform?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the uniform if you’re at Comic-Con, but it’s not going to work for the club I’m thinking of,” Abnett said.

  “Which club?” Dahl asked.

  “What’s Comic-Con?” Kerensky asked.

  “The Vine Club,” Abnett said. “One of those very secret clubs mere mortals can’t get into. I can’t get into it. But Marc Corey rates, barely.”

  “Barely,” Dahl said.

  “That means he has first-floor access but not second-floor, and definitely not basement,” Abnett said. “For second-floor you have to be the star of your own show, not part of the supporting cast. For the basement, you have to make twenty million a film and get a slice of the gross.”

  “I still want to know what Comic-Con is,” Kerensky said.

  “Later, Kerensky,” Hester said. “Jesus.” He turned to Abnett. “So, what? We get Kerensky to pose as Marc Corey and get into the club? What does that do?”

  Abnett shook his head. “He doesn’t pose as Corey. You have him go to the club and do to him what Andy here did to me. Draw him out and get him interested and maybe he will help you. I wouldn’t tell him you want to kill the show, since that means he’d be out of a regular job. But otherwise maybe you can get him to introduce you to Charles Paulson. He’s the show’s creator and executive producer. He’s the one you have to talk to. He’s the one you have to convince.”

  “So you can get us into this club,” Dahl said.

  “I can’t,” Abnett said. “Like I said, I don’t rate. But I have a friend who’s a bartender there, and I got him a commercial gig last summer. Kept him from going into foreclosure. So he owes me big. He can get you in.” He looked at them all, and then pointed at Kerensky. “Well, get him in.” He pointed at Duvall next. “And maybe her, too.”

  “You keep your friend from losing his house, and he lets two people into a club, and these are equal favors?” Hester said.

  “Welcome to Hollywood,” Abnett said.

  “We’ll take it,” Dahl said. “And thank you, Brian.”

  “Happy to help,” Brian said. “I mean, I’ve sort of become attached to you. Seeing that you’re actually real and all.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Dahl said.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Abnett said.

  “Sure,” Dahl said.

  “The future,” Abnett said. “It really is like it is on the show?”

  “The future really is like it is on the show,” Dahl said. “But I don’t know if it’s really the future.”

  “But this is your past,” Abnett said. “We’re part of your past. The year 2012, I mean.”

  “2012 is in our past, but not this 2012,” Dahl said. “There’s no Chronicles of the Intrepid television show in our past. It doesn’t exist in our timeline.”

  “So that means that I might not exist in your timeline,” Abnett said.

  “Maybe no
t,” Dahl said.

  “So you’re the only part of me there,” Abnett said. “The only part of me that’s ever existed there.”

  “I guess that’s possible,” Dahl said. “Just like you’re the only part of me that’s ever existed here.”

  “Doesn’t that mess with you?” Abnett asked. “Knowing that you exist, and don’t exist, and are real and aren’t, all at the same time?”

  “Yes, and I have training dealing with deep, existential questions,” Dahl said. “The way I’m dealing with it right now is this: I don’t care whether I really exist or don’t, whether I’m real or fictional. What I want right now is to be the person who decides my own fate. That’s something I can work on. It’s what I’m working on now.”

  “I think you might be smarter than me,” Abnett said.

  “That’s okay,” Dahl said. “I think you’re better looking than me.”

  Abnett smiled. “I’ll take that,” he said. “And speaking of which, it’s time to take you folks clothes shopping. Those uniforms work in the future, but here and now, they’ll get you branded as geeks who don’t get out of the basement enough. Do you have money?”

  “We have ninety-three thousand dollars,” Hanson said. “Minus seventy-eight dollars for lunch.”

  “I think we can work with that,” Abnett said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I hate these clothes,” Kerensky said.

  “You look good,” Dahl said, assuring him.

  “No, I don’t,” Kerensky said. “I look like I dressed in the dark. How did people wear this?”

  “Stop whining,” Duvall said. “It’s not like you don’t wear civvies back where we come from.”

  “This underwear is itchy,” Kerensky said, tugging.

  “If I knew you were this whiny, I never would have slept with you,” Duvall said.

  “If I knew you were going to drug me, kidnap me and take me back to the dark ages without my pants, I never would have slept with you,” Kerensky shot back.

  “Guys,” Dahl said, and motioned with his eyes to the cabbie, who was studiously ignoring the weirdos in his backseat. “Not so much with the dark ages talk.”

  The cab, on Sunset, took a left onto Vine.

  “So we’re sure Marc Corey’s still there, right?” Kerensky asked.