Redshirts

by John Scalzi

  Margaret closes the door and faces her husband. “When do you need to report to Xenobiology?” she asks.

  “I should report immediately,” her husband says.

  “That’s not what I asked,” Margaret says.

  “What do you have in mind?” her husband asks.

  “Something you’re not going to be able to document,” Margaret says.

  * * *

  “Did you want to make a confession?” Father Neil asks.

  Samantha giggles despite herself. “I don’t think I could confess to you with a straight face,” she says.

  “This is the problem of coming to a priest you used to date in high school,” Father Neil says.

  “You weren’t a priest then,” Samantha notes.

  The two of them are sitting in one of the back pews of Saint Finbar’s Church.

  “Well, if you decide you need confession, you let me know,” Neil says. “I promise not to tell. That’s actually one of the requirements, in fact.”

  “I remember,” Samantha says.

  “So why did you want to see me?” Neil asks. “Not that it isn’t nice to see you.”

  “Is it possible that we have other lives?” Samantha asks.

  “What, like reincarnation?” Neil asks. “And are you asking about Catholic doctrine, or something else?”

  “I’m not exactly sure how to describe it,” Samantha says. “I don’t think it’s reincarnation exactly.” She frowns. “I’m not sure there’s any way to describe it that doesn’t sound completely ridiculous.”

  “It’s popularly believed theologians had great debates about how many angels could dance on a head of a pin,” Neil says. “I don’t think your question could be any more ridiculous.”

  “Did they ever find out how many angels could dance on the head of a pin?” Samantha asks.

  “It was never actually seriously considered,” Neil says. “It’s kind of a myth. And even if it weren’t, the answer would be: As many as God needed to. What’s your question, Sam?”

  “Imagine there’s a woman who is like a fictional character, but she’s real,” Samantha says, and holds up her hand when she sees Neil about to ask a question. “Don’t ask how, I don’t know. Just accept that she’s the way I’ve described her. Now suppose that woman is based on someone in our real world—looks the same, sounds the same, from all outward appearances they could be the same person. The first woman wouldn’t exist without having the second woman as a model. Are they the same person? Are they the same soul?”

  Neil furrows his brow and Samantha is reminded of him at age sixteen and has to suppress a giggle. “The first woman is based on the second woman, but she’s not a clone?” he asks. “I mean, they don’t take genetic material from one to make the other.”

  “I don’t think so, no,” Samantha says.

  “But the first woman is definitely made from the second woman in some ineffable way?” Neil asks.

  “Yes,” Samantha says.

  “I’m not going to ask for details of how that gets managed,” Neil says. “I’m just going to take it on faith.”

  “Thank you,” Samantha says.

  “I can’t speak for the entire Catholic Church on this, but my own take on it would be no, they’re not,” Neil says. “This is a gross oversimplification, but the Church teaches us that those things that have in themselves the potential to become a human being have their own souls. If you were to make a clone of yourself, that clone wouldn’t be you, any more than identical twins are one person. Each has its own thoughts and personal experiences and are more than the sum of their genes. They’re their own person, and have their own individual souls.”

  “You think it would be the same for her?” Samantha asks.

  Neil looks at Samantha oddly but answers her question. “I’d think so. This other person has her own memories and experiences, yes?” Samantha nods. “If she has her own life, she has her own soul. The relationship you describe is somewhere between a child and an identical sibling—based on someone else but only based, not repeating them exactly.”

  “What if they’re separated in time?” Samantha asks. “Would it be reincarnation then?”

  “Not if you’re a Catholic,” Neil says. “Our doctrine doesn’t allow for it. I can’t speak to how other faiths would make the ruling. But the way you’re describing it, it doesn’t seem like reincarnation is strictly necessary anyway. The woman is her own person however you want to define it.”

  “Okay, good,” Samantha says.

  “Remember, this is just me talking,” Neil says. “If you want an official ruling, I’d have to run it past the pope. That might take a while.”

  Samantha smiles. “That’s all right,” she says. “What you’re saying makes sense to me. Thank you, Neil.”

  “You’re welcome,” Neil says. “Do you mind me asking what’s this about?”

  “It’s complicated,” Samantha says.

  “Apparently,” Neil says. “It sounds like you’re researching a science fiction story.”

  “Something like that, yes,” Samantha says.

  * * *

  Sweetheart,

  Welcome to Cirqueria! I know Collins has you cranking away on a project so I won’t see you before we go to the surface for the negotiations. I’m part of the Captain’s security detail; he expects things to proceed in boring and uneventful ways. Don’t wait up any longer than Collins makes you. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Kiss kiss love love,

  M

  P.S.: Kiss.

  P.S.S.: Love.

  * * *

  Samantha buys herself a printer and a couple hundred dollars’ worth of ink and prints out letters and photographs from the collection that she was given a month previously. The original projector had disappeared mysteriously as promised, collapsing into a crumbling pile that evaporated over the space of an hour. Before that happened, Samantha took her little digital camera and took a picture of every document, and video capture of every movie, that she had been given. The digital files remained on the camera card and on her hard drive; she’s printing documents for a different purpose entirely.

  When she’s done, she’s printed out a ream of paper, each with a letter from or a picture of Margaret Jenkins. It’s not Margaret’s whole life, but it’s a representation of the life that she lived with her husband; a representation of a life lived in love and with love.

  Samantha picks up the ream of paper, walks over to the small portable shredder she’s purchased and runs each sheet of paper through it, one piece at a time. She takes the shredded papers into her small backyard and places them into a small metal garbage can she has also purchased. She packs the paper down so that is loosely compacted, lights a kitchen match and places it into the trash can, making sure the paper catches. When it does, Samantha places the lid on top of the garbage can, set slightly askew to allow oxygen in while keeping wisps of burning paper from floating away.

  The paper burns down to ashes. Samantha opens the lid and pours a bucket of beach sand into the trash can, smothering any remaining embers. Samantha goes back into her house to retrieve a wooden spoon from her kitchen and uses it to stir the sand, mixing it with the ashes. After a few minutes of this, Samantha upends the trash can and carefully pours the mixture of sand and ashes into the bucket. She covers the bucket, places it into her car and drives toward Santa Monica.

  * * *

  Hello.

  I don’t know what to call you. I don’t know if you will ever read this or if you will believe it even if you do. But I’m going to write like you will read it and believe it. There’s no point in doing it otherwise.

  You are the reason that my life has had joy. You didn’t know it, and you couldn’t have known it. It doesn’t mean it’s not true. It’s true because without you, the woman who was my wife would not have been who she was, and who she was to me. In your world, you played her, as an actress, for what I believe was only a brief amount of time—so brief that it’s possible you
don’t even remember that you played her.

  But in that brief time, you gave her life. And where I am, she shared that life with me, and gave me something to live for. When she stopped living, I stopped living too. I stopped living for years.

  I want to start living again. I know she would want me to start living again. To do that I need to give her back to you. Here she is.

  I wish you could have known her. I wish you could have talked to her, laughed with her and loved her as I did. It’s impossible now. But at the very least I can show you what she meant to me, and how she lived with me and shared her life with me.

  I don’t know you; I will never know you. But I have to believe that a great part of who my wife was comes from you—lives in you even now. My wife is gone, but knowing that you are out there gives me some comfort. I hope that what was good in her, those things I loved in her, live in you too. I hope that in your life you have the love that she had in hers. I have to believe you do, or at the very least that you can.

  I could say more, but I believe the best way to explain everything is simply to show you everything. So here it is. Here she is.

  My wife’s name was Margaret Elizabeth Jenkins. Thank you for giving her to me, for the time I had her. She’s yours again.

  With love,

  Adam Jenkins

  * * *

  Samantha Martinez stands ankle deep in the ocean, not too far from the Santa Monica Pier, and sprinkles the remains of Margaret Jenkins’ life in the place where she will have one day been on her honeymoon. She does not hurry in the task, taking time between each handful of ash and sand to remember Margaret’s words, and her life, and her love, bringing them inside of her and letting them become part of her, whether for the first time or once again.

  When she’s done, she turns around to walk up the beach and notices a man standing there, watching her. She smiles and walks up to him.

  “You were spreading ashes,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

  “I was,” Samantha says.

  “Whose were they?” he asks.

  “They were my sister’s,” Samantha says. “In a way.”

  “In a way?” he asks.

  “It’s complicated,” Samantha explains.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says.

  “Thank you,” Samantha says. “She lived a good life. I’m glad I got to be a part of it.”

  “This is probably the worst possible thing I could say to you right this moment,” the man says, “but I swear you look familiar to me.”

  “You look familiar to me too,” Samantha says.

  “I swear to you this isn’t a line, but are you an actress?” the man asks.

  “I used to be,” Samantha says.

  “Were you ever on The Chronicles of the Intrepid?” the man asks.

  “Once,” Samantha says.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” the man says. “I think I played your character’s husband.”

  “I know,” Samantha says.

  “You remember?” the man asks.

  “No,” Samantha said. “But I know what her husband looks like.”

  The man holds out his hand. “I’m Nick Weinstein,” he says.

  “Hello, Nick,” Samantha says, shaking it. “I’m Samantha.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Nick says. “Again, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Samantha says. “Nick, I’m thinking of getting something to eat. Would you like to join me?”

  Now it’s Nick’s turn to smile. “I would like that. Yes,” he says.

  The two of them head up the beach.

  “It’s kind of a coincidence,” Nick says, after a few seconds. “The two of us being here like this.”

  Samantha smiles again and puts her arm around Nick as they walk.

  Acknowledgments

  I wrote this novel in the wake of having worked on a science fiction television show, so before I do anything else, let me make the following disclaimer: Redshirts is not even remotely based on the television show Stargate: Universe. Anyone hoping this is a thinly veiled satire of that particular experience of mine is going to have to be disappointed. Indeed, I would argue that Stargate: Universe was all the things that The Chronicles of the Intrepid wasn’t—namely, smart, well-written and interested in having its science nod in the direction of plausibility.

  I was really pleased to have worked on SG:U as its creative consultant; I also had a lot of fun with it. And of course I genuinely enjoyed watching it, both as a fan of the genre and as someone who worked on it and could see where my contributions showed up on the screen. That was cool. I’ve co-dedicated this book to Brad Wright and Joe Mallozzi, the SG:U producers who brought me into the show, but I’d also like to take a moment here to bow deeply to the cast, crew, writers and staff of SG:U as well. It’s a shame it couldn’t have lasted longer, but no good thing lasts forever.

  I also wrote this novel while serving as president of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, the largest organization of SF/F writers in the world (and possibly in the entire universe, although of course there’s no way to confirm this, yet). Over the years, there’s been a bit of received wisdom that if one serves as SFWA’s president, one has to essentially lose a year of creative productivity to the gig, and possibly one’s sanity as well. I’m happy to say I have not found this to be true—and the reason it was not true in my case was that I was fortunate to have an SFWA board of directors filled with very smart, dedicated people, who worked together for its members as well as or better than any board in recent memory.

  So to Amy Sterling Casil, Jim Fiscus, Bob Howe, Lee Martindale, Bud Sparhawk, Sean Williams and in particular Mary Robinette Kowal, my sincere thanks, admiration and appreciation. It was an honor to serve with each of you. Thanks also to all those who volunteer for SFWA and make it a writers’ organization I am proud to be a part of.

  Every time I write a novel, I am amazed at how much better it is when it finally comes out in book form. It’s because so many excellent people improve it along the way. This book was helped along by Patrick Nielsen Hayden, my editor; Irene Gallo, Tor’s art director; cover artist Peter Lutjen; copyeditor Sona Vogel; text designer Heather Saunders and also production editor Rafal Gibek. Thanks are also due to Cassie Ammerman, my publicist at Tor, and of course to Tom Doherty, who continues to publish my work, for which I continue to be ridiculously pleased. Thanks are also due to my agent, Ethan Ellenberg, and to Evan Gregory, who keeps track of my foreign sales.

  Redshirts was read by a small core of first-line readers who offered invaluable feedback and assured me that the thing was something more than just a piss-take on televised science fiction (although obviously it is that too). My appreciation, then, to Regan Avery (as always), Karen Meisner, Wil Wheaton, Doselle Young, Paul Sabourin, Greg DiCostanzo and my wife, Kristine Scalzi, who also deserves thanks for putting up with me in a general sense. I’m really glad she does.

  And finally, thank you, dear reader. I’m glad you keep coming back for more. If you keep coming back, I’ll keep writing them. That’s a promise.

  John Scalzi,

  July 22, 2011

  Also by John Scalzi

  Old Man’s War

  The Ghost Brigades

  The Android’s Dream

  The Last Colony

  Zoe’s Tale

  Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded

  Fuzzy Nation

  Edited by John Scalzi

  Metatropolis

  About the Author

  John Scalzi is the author of several SF novels, including the bestselling Old Man’s War and its sequels, and the New York Times bestseller Fuzzy Nation. He is a winner of science fiction’s John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, and he won the Hugo Award for Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded, a collection of essays from his wildly popular blog, Whatever (whatever.scalzi.com). He lives in Ohio with his wife and daughter.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organization
s, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  REDSHIRTS

  Copyright © 2012 by John Scalzi

  All rights reserved.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-1699-8 (hardcover)

  ISBN 9781429963602 (e-book)

  First Edition: June 2012