by Zen DiPietro
“Yes.”
“That means this is your first trip to Posytin. I want to show it to you.”
“I don’t think you do. I mean, I’m not…” Not safe. Not normal. Not the kind of guy you want to hang around with. “…like other people,” I finish lamely.
“Neither am I,” she answers. “Let’s go.”
3
It all happens in a blur, and before I know it, I’m about to disembark from the Second Chance to go sightseeing. I recalculate the odds of having slipped into a parallel universe.
Leaving the ship means going down an elevator that I hadn’t seen when arriving on the ship. Above it, a sign reads, Do not use elevator. Please use elevator.
“I think this one’s broken,” I say. “Is there another?
Greta laughs. “Never mind the sign. It means do use the elevator.”
“But it says not to use it.”
The thing opens. It might actually look like the gate to hell, or, more likely, one of my complexes has come roaring to life. But Greta takes my hand and pulls me in. I’m so stunned by her touch that I’m like a deer in headlights. I suspect I’d walk right into a lion’s mouth if she led me there by the hand.
What is wrong with me?
As we stand there and the doors close, though, I get a very bad feeling in my stomach. Something like a porcupine that’s been lit on fire. But we begin to descend and Greta turns her head slightly to smile at me. When we get to the bottom and the doors reopen, I remember to breathe. That could have been really awful—elevators are not kind to my people. But somehow with Greta, it had been okay. So far.
The Posytin space port turns out to be small and calm. Provincial, even. Fresh-faced teenagers carry baskets full of paper brochures, which they offer to people as we filter through the airlocks. A freckle-faced boy holds one out to me, and he looks so earnest that I hurriedly accept it.
“We won’t need that. I know all the best places to visit.” Greta leads me through the small station and out to Posytin itself. Or whatever town within Posytin this is. I know nothing of the naming habits of such places.
She pauses on the sidewalk, taking in a deep breath. “Doesn’t it smell wonderful here?”
I take a tiny, cautious sniff. I have no plans of snorting a bee up my nose. Or whatever insects they have here. I must admit the aroma is nice, though. “Is that flowers?”
“Yes!” She spreads her arms in the air. “This little planet provides most of the flowers you’ll find along this trade route. A good bit beyond that, too. That’s pretty much their whole reason for being: growing flowers and flora tourism.”
“People go traveling just to look at flowers?”
“Sure.” Greta shrugs. “There are far worse reasons. I think it’s nice. I love the chance to get fresh air and some time outdoors.”
“Right. You spend a lot of your time traveling around on ships.”
“Yeah. I like it, but it gets a little stifling sometimes. All that recirculated air.” She scrunches up her nose, looking cute.
“So where are we going?”
“The best garden on Posytin.”
“What makes it the best?”
“I won’t spoil the surprise. But they also have a stand with fried flowers that you dip in a sweet sauce. It’s amazing.”
Not only am I not sure about eating in front of her again, I’m really dubious about eating flowers. But I stay quiet.
A piece of paper skitters across the ground and lands in the same spot as Greta’s next step. She bends, reaches, and comes back up with a rectangular paper with curly blue writing on it.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Local money.”
“Paper money?” I’m amazed. I’ve never seen physical currency. Banking is usually done through the First Interplanetary Bank, in entirely digital form. It’s clean, efficient, and a barrier to illegal activity since it’s so easily tracked. Not that illegal activity is impossible. Just risky.
“Something they do for the tourists. Getting people to exchange their money for this stuff is like letting them have play money. It’s fun, like a game, and they spend it accordingly.”
“How much is it?” I can’t decipher the script.
“Fifty marks.”
“Is that a lot?”
Greta gives me a cheeky grin. “Enough to cover our activities here. Including a souvenir for you.”
“I don’t need a souvenir.” I’m not much of a collector of kitsch. Or of anything, really.
“Sure you do. This is your first visit to a planet that isn’t Earth. That’s pretty cool.”
She resumes walking, which saves me from having to reply.
We arrive at a tall, wooden arch emblazoned with Welcome to Waterfall Garden.
I freeze like a dog that just realized he’s on the way to the vet. “There’s a waterfall in there?”
“Just a little one. It’s nice.” She tries to nudge me forward.
I resist. “Define little.”
“Tiny.” She makes a vague gesture. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I don’t want to drown today. Or ever.”
She rolls her eyes and puts her arm around my waist. “You’re not going to drown. Come on.”
Her arm. Is around. My waist. I’m entirely incapable of resistance as she propels me through the arch. Once she’s sure I’m coming along, her arm falls away, but still I follow her lead.
A man approaches, dozens of loops of interwoven flowers draped over his forearm. With a happy smile, he plucks one and holds it up. An offer.
Greta nods and the man gently places the flower crown on her head. “Thank you,” she says warmly.
“You’re welcome. If anyone asks, tell them where you got it.” He winks at her.
“I will.”
As we walk, she puts a hand to the flowers. “Like it?”
“It’s pretty,” I admit, though I’ve never particularly cared for flowers. But they look nice on her.
We walk along for several minutes, down a wide path with flowering hedges on each side. The roar of water in the distance gets louder as we go. We turn a corner and there it is, a seven-foot-tall waterfall, with a cascade of frothing water rushing over.
I take a step back. Sure, it’s small, as waterfalls go. But fear shoots up my spine and no amount of tugging from Greta is going to get me past that point.
Her smile falls away and worry fills her eyes. “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s go this way instead.”
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 t
hings, 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 hazards. 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, b
ut 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 taste yuzu, passionfruit, and some other fruity flavors I can’t identify. It’s carbonated and tastes…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 mood?”
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.
