Dodging Fate: A Charlie Kenny Redshirt Adventure

by Zen DiPietro

  Am I? I’ve been working up to this for a month.

  A month doesn’t feel like enough, but I don’t want to disappoint Greta. Behind the bar of the Second Chance, Pinky looks on with the casual air of someone who isn’t interested. She’s good at that.

  “All right,” I say. “Let’s do this. Kenogu!”

  Kenogu has become our battle cry, thanks to Pinky. It’s a phrase from her homeworld that translates roughly to “shit happens” but also means that it’s up to you to deal with whatever’s in front of you. It suits us pretty well.

  Across from me, shrouded beneath a towel, lies my nemesis. To prepare myself, I imagine I’m Pinky. Seven feet of pink Mebdarian mutant, with a constitution of what I suspect is steel if not something stronger.

  Greta moves the towel aside, revealing my enemy: four long blades protrude menacingly toward me until she grips it, reverses it, and holds it out to me. “Just hold it for five seconds. That’s all.”

  Light reflects off the monster’s silver surface, gleaming at me with evil intent. I want to run almost as much as I want to impress Greta.

  I’m Pinky. I’m tough, fearless, and could eat this thing if I wanted to.

  I reach out and my fingers are on the handle.

  I’m Pinky. I chew on razor blades for fun and sometimes grown men cry just at the sight of me.

  I curl my fist around it and Greta begins counting.

  “Five.”

  I’m Pinky.

  “Four.”

  I once single-handedly took down a pod of bloodthirsty blagrooks, then acted like it was nothing.

  “Three.”

  I’m not afraid of anything.

  “Two.”

  My hand begins to shake.

  “One.”

  I drop the fork and back away from the table. I’m not even aware of having stood up.

  “Great job!” Greta cheers, rushing over to give me a hug.

  Sadly, I’m too concerned with conquering my urge to dry heave to enjoy her embrace.

  Pinky casually drops a towel over the fork and picks it up, then slips out the door. For someone her size, she can be amazingly stealthy.

  “Thanks.” My insides feel like jelly, but I’m not about to admit that to Greta. Lovely Greta with the golden glow.

  Literally. She’s Garbdorian, and her people have a natural luminescence. With that skin and her pale green hair, she looks wonderfully cosmopolitan to a previously Earthbound dullard like me. I’ve been working hard to become more like her and less of a sectarian rube. I’m making strides, but clearly there is much work yet to do.

  I first boarded the Second Chance with nothing but tragic family history and a dream. My destination was a retirement planet, which, at the time, seemed like a brilliant place for a guy like me since I’m destined to be eaten by a yeti-gator, fall into a pulper, or be assimilated into a cyborg like my poor grandmother.

  Ah, Nana. I keep meaning to write her a letter. I’m not sure how much of my real nana is left in there but she sends me a care package of shitty cookies every now and then, so there must be a little more than a glimmer at the least. And it’s not her fault she makes really bad cookies. She made great ones before the cyborgs came along.

  But back to forks. That’s the personal phobia I’ve been battling for years. Dr. Ramalama, who used to be my doctor, gave me a great many sessions of unhelpful therapy for that and other anxieties.

  I need to write her a letter, too, actually. I haven’t yet officially fired her as my mental health practitioner. I’ve been gathering my thoughts. These things take time.

  The truth is, Greta and Pinky have been far more help than that old ding dong ever was. Greta’s bizarrely good luck has tempered my bad luck. In return, my bad luck has ensured that not everything goes her way, and she thrives on the excitement brought on by the unlikely events that come my way.

  Her luck has protected me from a grisly death more than once.

  We have a certain yin and yang, when it comes to luck. We balance each other out in an interesting way.

  Pinky rounds out our group. Her luck is of the ordinary variety, but she has a certain terrifying badassery that is a comfort to me because I know she’s got my back. It also makes me very, very careful to ensure she remains my friend.

  I’ve landed in a sweet situation here on the Second Chance—it’s the kind of thing that doesn’t happen to a guy like me. So I’ve seized the day, and my kenogu, by trying to better myself.

  It’s an unlikely opportunity that sure beats being harpooned, like my great-granddad.

  I am a lucky guy, as far as redshirts go. I have no intentions of squandering this rare good fortune.

  “Let’s celebrate!” Greta declares. It’s early morning and we’re the only ones in Pinky’s bar. Statistically, I’ve found that fatal accidents are least likely to occur in the early morning. This is why our fork exercises take place at such an unfortunate hour. On the bright side, Pinky hardly requires any sleep, so she’s game for pretty much anything.

  I dig that about her.

  “One yak milk for me, straight up. And a Backdoor Special for Charlie,” Greta says, still speaking too loudly.

  “You got it,” Pinky says.

  When had Pinky returned? Seriously, she has mad skills when it comes to sneaking. Who would have thought?

  Pinky begins her unique, violent ballet of drink mixing. She has a way of making the process look like a vicious struggle, ending in a triumphant murder. And yet it’s all somehow disturbingly beautiful.

  “Care to have a drink with us, Pinky?” I hope she’ll say yes and drink enough to give me some deeper insight into her. She’s not terribly forthcoming, and I have a lot of questions.

  She considers, then shrugs. “Why not? My mother always says, ‘starting out the drunk a little day is always a good idea.’”

  “Uhm.” I hate to correct Pinky, but that sounded wrong. “Did you mix a couple words, there?”

  “No. My mom did. Good old Mom is pretty much always at least a little bit drunk.” Pinky wears an expression of pride.

  I don’t know what to do with that, so I ask, “So what will you drink?”

  “A Peppermint Boot.” She grabbed a tall, v-shaped glass.

  “Peppermint schnapps, dry vodka, and beef jerky, right?” I ask.

  “You got it.” She turns away to make her beverage.

  I sip my Backdoor. Pinky’s been teaching me bartending. I still work remotely via the lightstream as a statistician, but I find I have a lot of free time and little to do with it. Learning to mix drinks seems like a good use of that time. I like how most recipes are just ratios. It suits my mathematical mind.

  Plus, I enjoy hanging out with Pinky. Not only is she capable of thwarting a great many threats to my life, she’s just dang cool.

  Greta pats me on the shoulder. “You’re doing great with the fork training.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pinky joins us with her Peppermint Boot in hand. I take a moment to appreciate the sight. Pinky keeps a selection of extra-large glassware for people who are more sizeable than most. Oh, and Martians. I always thought the jokes about them were just stereotypical nonsense, but those Martians can drink.

  I’ve learned a lot during my short time in space.

  Anyway, Pinky stands there across from us, holding a glass that for her is a mere beverage, but for me would constitute doomsday prepping. I’d guess that her little aperitif contains no less than three cylindrical liters of hard alcohol.

  Greta sips her yak milk. For some reason, Garbdorians aren’t affected by booze like most species are. It’s like lemonade to them. But get some lactose in them and they’re having a good time. Yak milk, for whatever reason, is especially potent for them.

  I’m learning a lot about other species these days.

  “You know,” Pinky says after a long quaff of Peppermint Boot. “Mebdarians invented forks. So, sorry about that, since your brain is all broken and stuff.”

 
; I don’t know if she’s joking or serious. There’s really no telling with Pinky. Her deadpan delivery has no rival. She claims her people have invented a lot of things that they definitely have not, and I think she means it. But again, it’s impossible to be sure.

  I’ve found it’s easiest to just go along with it. “Not your fault. It’s just a redshirt thing to have complexes and phobias.”

  She fixes me with a supercilious look. “Didn’t say it was my fault. I said sorry your brain’s broken.”

  Right. Okay. I lift my Backdoor at her in reply. The drink. Not the other thing. If Pinky ever decides to kick my ass, it’ll be the last thing that ever happens to me.

  Greta giggles. She’s halfway through her yak milk and already looking happy. Her luminescence has increased, too. It’s quite pretty.

  My situation with Greta is tricky. I like her. Like, like her kind of like her. She’s fun, witty, generous, and, unlike many people, not terrified to sit next to someone she knows is a redshirt. I’m rendered unable to ask her out, though, by my concern for messing up our friendship. I’ve never had what I have with Pinky and Greta. This level of comfort and camaraderie is otherwise unknown to me. I don’t think I could give it up for anything, even a chance at more with Greta.

  Plus, there’s the fact that I’m married.

  I never thought I’d get married. I didn’t intend to, either. Greta, Pinky, and I were having some laughs on a space station run by some fish-people called the Albacore. They seemed pleasant enough, though their need to hold water in their gill pouches to keep their membranes from drying out makes them sound like they’re underwater when they talk.

  One of them asked me something that sounded like, “Shall we go to the ferry?” I thought she was offering to be a tour guide. I got something way wrong, though, because a couple weeks later, I got slapped with alimony papers. I still don’t understand what happened.

  My wife’s name is Oollooleeloo, according to the legal documents. It’s kind of a nice name, actually. When no one else is in the shower room, sometimes I put my head under the water and make Oollooleeloo! sounds. It’s fun. You should try it.

  Anyway, so far I’ve stayed ahead of the alimony stuff. Living on a travel and tourism ship has its benefits.

  That pretty much explains my life right now. It’s great. The best I’ve ever had. I do the work for my firm, I duck my fishwife, and I hang out with Greta and Pinky. We have the most fun when the ship hits a port and we can go adventuring. Though simple days just banging around the Second Chance are great, too.

  Greta’s cheeks are turning pink, and she raises her glass for a toast. As I clink my glass against hers and Pinky’s, I can only think of how much I don’t want anything to come along and ruin all this.

  6

  As luck would have it, today we’ll dock at Garvon VII. I’ve never been there, but Pinky and Greta tell me it’s great fun. The whole planetoid is a riverfront carnival sort of thing. It’s a highly popular tour destination, because who doesn’t enjoy breaking up the monotony of space travel with arcade games and throwing tiny rings at impossible targets?

  Every time I leave the ship, I have to give myself a stern talking-to about standing up to my phobias, pushing past the fear in my stomach, and focusing on having a good time. I need to trust in Greta’s luck and Pinky’s awesomeness.

  And I do.

  For our visit to Garvon VII, I also have to chastise myself about not mentally calculating the miniscule odds of winning any of the silly carnival games. Today will be about fun, not about statistics.

  It’s hard to break old habits. Especially when those habits increase the odds of my continued survival.

  Back in good old cabin 25J, I get ready for the adventure ahead. I got lucky when the Chance Fleet agreed to let me rent this room indefinitely. Such a thing is typically reserved for fleet employees like Greta, as their brand ambassador, and Pinky, as their bartender. It probably helped that Greta was the one to make the request.

  Do I feel bad about using her luck for my own purposes? No. Not at all. I figure the universe owes me one.

  I put on a plain pair of beige shorts and an off-white shirt. Greta keeps telling me my clothes are boring, but this is another habit I’ve yet to break. Not standing out in a crowd and not having any decorative bits on my apparel have thus far prevented me from becoming another clothing casualty.

  For my people, that’s a thing.

  I drop my shiny green luck stone into my pocket. Greta gave it to me, and I carry it with me everywhere I go.

  As I leave my cabin, I notice the little man staying in 26J open his door. He starts out, notices me, and scowls. After a moment of visible reconsideration, he emerges anyway, eyeing me like I’m a seagull about to snatch his happy beach-day lunch right out of his hands.

  I don’t know what his problem is. I’ve never been anything but pleasant to him.

  “Good morning, sir. Will you be visiting Garvon VII today?” I level a friendly smile at him.

  “What if I do? Are you going to look up my nose and tell me what you see?”

  I’m at a loss. That was oddly specific, and just plain weird. Maybe it’s a phrase where he comes from. And now I probably look like a rube, not knowing what it means.

  “Uh, no, sir, I’d never do that,” I assure him.

  “See that you don’t!” He points at me accusingly, then stomps off down the corridor.

  I probably could have handled that better, but I’m not sure how.

  Nothing to do for it now. I brush off the experience and continue to Greta’s quarters. She answers as soon as I knock, and joins me in the corridor. She looks happy and excited, and a little extra glowy still after her early-morning drink.

  “Hi, Charlie!” she chirps. “Let’s go get Pinky. I can’t wait to start having some fun.”

  She rushes ahead at an entirely foolhardy pace. She could trip on a carpet wrinkle or be rammed by a food cart going the opposite direction at a junction. But she’s wild and crazy like that.

  I hurry more than I’m comfortable with to keep myself within the radius of her good luck. In my experience, the benefit outweighs the risk.

  Pinky takes a full two minutes to answer her door. I wonder if she was busy and if her cabin is bigger than mine. Well, it must be, given her size. My own little space is not much bigger than a closet.

  I try to peek in when she opens the door, because I’m really, really curious about what her living space looks like. For all I know, she decorates with machetes and the teeth of people who have crossed her.

  But she fills the space, then closes the door behind her and the opportunity is gone.

  “Let’s go wreck Garvon VII.” Pinky heads toward the elevators so we can disembark.

  I’m both nervous and excited about how literally she might mean that.

  We get in the elevator and wait for it to begin its descent. Instead, a mellow, electronic voice says, Welcome to the Chance 3000: A new experience in elevators.

  I hadn’t realized this was going to be a whole experience.

  The voice continues. We’ve developed the Chance 3000 to better serve you, our guests. We elevate you because you elevate us. Please enjoy your elevator experience.

  Greta looks as puzzled as I feel. Pinky looks entirely unimpressed.

  State your desired destination.

  “But there’s only up and down.” Greta says. “And since we’re up, we obviously want to go down.”

  You said, “Up.” Now going up.

  “We’re already up!” Greta shouts at it.

  Up has already been registered. Please be patient.

  “Oh, now it’s getting snotty with me.” One side of Greta’s nose wrinkles in irritation.

  She looks cute that way.

  We wait for ten long, curious seconds, then the doors open.

  Arrived at up. You may now depart.

  “But we want to go down,” I say.

  You may now depart.

  “No. Go down
!” I’m getting frustrated, too.

  You may now depart.

  “Oh, for pete’s sake,” Greta says. “Let’s get off and back on again. Maybe that will fix it. And no one say ‘up’ under any circumstances.”

  We do a funny little dance of leaving the elevator, then getting back on.

  Welcome to the Chance 3000: A new experience in elevators.

  Greta glares at the speaker that transmits the voice, but says nothing.

  We’ve developed the Chance 3000 to better serve you, our guests. We elevate you because you elevate us. Please enjoy your elevator experience.

  Not so much, at this point. But I’m afraid to even mutter something sarcastic for fear of making it do something strange.

  State your desired destination.

  “Down,” Greta demands.

  You said, “Down.” Now going down.

  We remain quiet as the elevator descends, all the way down to the bottom, and the doors open.

  Arrived at down. You may now depart.

  As soon as we’re out, Greta bursts out, “That is not an improved experience! They should change it back.”

  “Yeah!” What my agreement lacks in words, it makes up for in supportive tone.

  Then I get my first good look at Garvon VII.

  Wow.

  There’s activity everywhere. People mill about, carnies shout to people to try their games, and costumed characters with giant heads roam about, waving and taking photos with guests.

  I breathe in deeply because the scent of the place is wonderful: fried dough, popcorn, and sunscreen.

  I feel instant excitement. Awe. And happiness. All things relatively foreign to me.

  “What should we do first?” Greta asks.

  “I want to throw some stuff,” Pinky says.

  “Let’s go!” Greta grabs my hand and pulls me forward.

  I feel light-headed. She’s holding my hand. It’s amazing.

  Then Pinky holds my other hand and I come crashing down. Suddenly I feel weird. Like some of my internal organs have suddenly exited my body and are just lying on the pavement ahead of me.

  As I look at her in confusion and amazement, Pinky gives me a big, maniacal grin.