by Zen DiPietro
If you’ve never seen a large, pink mutant eating an ice cream, let me tell you, it’s entirely delightful. Every now and then, when you think she’s made of nothing but acid and steel, Pinky does something wonderfully endearing.
“Look what Charlie bought me!” Greta shows Pinky her pendant.
“Pretty,” Pinky says. “Where’s mine?”
“Here.” I take the blue one from my pocket and hold it out. “I hope you like it. I got the longest chain they had.”
Pinky stares at me, her ice cream cone held aloft, but forgotten. “Really? That’s for me?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t forget you.”
She stands and the next few moments are a blur that leave me with ice cream in my hair and a breathless feeling. But I’m pretty sure Pinky hugged me.
Then she’s proudly wearing her necklace and tossing back the rest of her cone in three bites.
Which is amazing all by itself, since it was a quadruple-scoop.
We find Mr. Renard’s shop, and I’m immediately drawn in. There’s a subtle smell in there, like cherry pipe tobacco carried on the wind.
Then there I am, gawking at row after row of original Renard paintings.
“Robot western paintings?” Greta sounds doubtful, even though I can tell she’s trying not to.
“Robot westerns are my favorite movies,” I tell her without looking at her. I have eyes for nothing but all these artworks. Robots having shootouts, robots riding robot horses, and vast herds of robot cattle.
“Cool.”
Pinky says, “I like ‘em. Lots of laser shootouts, and all those campy sound effects.” She points a finger at me. “Pew, pew, pew!”
I adopt a robotic voice. “You’d. Better. Mean it. If you. Shoot. At. Me. I will. Make you. Regret. It.”
Pinky puts her ‘gun’ into its ‘holster’ and puts her hands on her hips, adopting a cocky swagger. “My targeting programs. Are superior. To yours. You. Will never. Defeat me.”
We both burst into laughter. Ahh, it’s like being a kid again.
“I see you two are fans.” Mr. Renard stands before us, and I’m starstruck. He smiles at Greta. “How about you?”
“Oh!” Greta wears a look of panic. “I…”
Mr. Renard laughs. “It’s okay not to be a fan. We’re a small club.”
“Your artwork is wonderfully detailed,” she says. “You make it look just like a scene from a movie.”
“Thank you. I’m lucky to be able to make a living doing what I love. And that I’ve been able to do it for so long.”
I know from his biography that he’s sixty-five, from one of Earth’s wine country regions, and one heck of a poker player.
Not that I’m a fanboy or anything.
“Which one do you like?” he asks me. He seems to have picked me out as the one wanting to make a purchase. Clever fellow.
“I’m torn,” I admit. “I love the classic shootout scenes, but I like the more pastoral, ranch landscapes, too. Like this one, with all the spaceships in the background.”
“Mm. I know what you mean.” He stands next to me, a finger to his lips. “You know, here’s something I think you might like.”
He takes a painting off the easel and leans it against the wall. Then he retrieves a pastoral scene and puts it up in its place. “See these two? Look here.” He points at the facing edges of them.
The left is a shootout, the right is a field with a spaceship and a herd of robo-cows.
“They connect,” I realize.
“Yes, they’re a panoramic scene, but split into two. They’re kind of a secret of mine. Most customers want a portable size, but my ideas are often much bigger. So I paint the whole thing, cut it down the middle, and frame them individually. I get to paint the big scenes I like, and customers get what they need.”
“Clever.” I don’t even have to stare at the paintings and imagine them on the wall of my cabin and consider the way the light will hit them or any of that. The prices were discreetly noted below, and though they’re far from inexpensive, I can afford the cost. “I’ll take them.”
Mr. Renard lights up. “I’m really pleased they’ll stay together. I’ll have my assistant box them for transport and ring them up. Do you want to come back for them?”
“That would be great. We still have some exploring to do.”
Mr. Renard nods. “Good, take your time. Make sure you visit the bargain shop at the end of the row. You never know what you’ll find there. For a lot of people, it’s their favorite place on Perabo.”
“We will. Thanks.” I want to linger, but it would be weird. “We’ll be back in a couple hours or so.”
“Like I said, take your time.” Mr. Renard waves to us.
Now what? I feel like the high point of this trip has already happened, but I try to be game. I’m still here to have a nice day with my friends.
“What would you like to do next, Pinky?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t mind another ice cream cone,” she says, sounding hopeful.
“Sounds good to me. Greta?”
She smiles. “Sure, who doesn’t love ice cream?”
“Glavadroxavarians,” Pinky answers. “Wicked lactose intolerance. You do not want to be anywhere near that.”
Lactose. Right. “So, can a Garbdorian get drunk on ice cream?” I ask Greta.
“If they have enough, sure. But the sugar and other carbohydrates weaken the potency. Kind of like drinking alcohol on a full stomach for you.”
“Huh. Okay.”
In the ice cream shop, I’m bewildered by the vastness of the selections. There are twenty-eight flavors that can be served alone or mixed in combination with one another. There are four types of cones, waffle bowls, and plain old cups. The topping options look like a candy factory exploded.
It’s a lot to take in.
Greta decides quickly on a blueberry double-scoop cake cone with no toppings. Pinky takes time weighing her options, which I wouldn’t have expected since she just had an ice cream. She chooses a mere triple-scoop of lushfruit and chocolate, mixed together. Plus rainbow sprinkles. I wouldn’t have pegged Pinky as a rainbow sprinkles kind of girl.
I take the longest to decide.
“A vanilla double-scoop waffle bowl, please,” I say.
Greta groans. “Noooo, don’t get him that. Wait one second, please.” She flashes the scoop-guy with a blinding smile and he looks momentarily stunned.
She says, “Charlie, is vanilla really your favorite? Because if it is, that’s fine.”
“Not really,” I admit. “It just seems like the safest bet. The least likely to be gross or to have choking hazards in it.”
“What sounds like it might be delicious?” she asks. “Pick something you’d really like to try.”
Old habits are hard to break, but she’s right.
“Okay.” I look at the scoop-guy. “I’ll take a double-scoop of Death by Chocolate in a waffle bowl.”
“Wow, that even has the word ‘death’ right in it. Nice job, Charlie.” Greta hits me with one of her megawatt smiles.
Even Pinky seems pleased.
It’s just an ice cream order, but I feel pretty proud of myself.
We go outside to the benches and find Waldorf there, finishing off a sundae. He drops his bowl and spoon into a recycling kiosk.
“Hi, Waldorf!” Greta calls as we approach. “How was your ice cream?”
The old man considers. “I got peach passion, and I’ve had better. I didn’t taste much passion. Though it did have a good peachy flavor, so I guess it was kind of good. And I liked how creamy it was. So, yeah, great ice cream! Glad I came!”
His rapid turnaround has me puzzled, but Greta is unperturbed. “I’m pleased you liked it. Where are you headed next?”
“Just to the pillow shop, then back to the ship. I’m getting tired.”
“Have a good time!” Greta turns her attention to her cone, which is on the verge of dripping.
“You too, my dear.”
Waldorf waves and walks away.
We take our time enjoying our ice cream.
“Where should we go next?” Greta asks.
“I think the bargain shop,” Pinky says. “It’s my favorite. You never know what you’ll find there.”
“Okay. I like that one, too.” In a blatant disregard for protocol, Greta takes a bite of her cone, even before she’d eaten her ice cream down to that point.
She’s such a rebel.
Waldorf comes back into view, looking disgruntled.
“What’s wrong, Waldorf?” Greta asks. “Did something go wrong at the pillow shop?”
“How did you know I was at the pillow shop?” he demands. “Are you following me?”
Greta looks gobsmacked. “No! I—”
He cuts her off, “And don’t call me Waldorf! I hate when people call me that!” He stabs a finger at her, and then, for good measure, at me, and Pinky, too. He stomps off in the direction of the Second Chance.
Pinky just keeps eating her cone, but Greta looks amazed. She hasn’t entirely adapted to the twists and oddities that fate sends my way.
“I’m so glad you two saw that,” I say.
“Old fella’s one planet short of a solar system,” Pinky notes. “That’s sad.”
“I didn’t realize.” Greta frowns. “I’ll make sure the porters know, so they can make sure he’s properly looked after.”
She’s a good brand ambassador, that Greta.
We finish our ice cream with subdued small talk. Afterward, we head to the bargain shop.
It’s larger than the other stores. Six or seven times larger, with rows of haphazardly arranged goods. Smiling cloth dolls stand next to military surplus weapons belts.
“Ooh, look.” Pinky grabs a belt and slings it around her waist. She jams a pair of dolls into it, one on each side. Adopting a robot-western voice, she says, “Draw. You lily-motherboarded. Virus-laden. Scoundrel!”
I look to Greta. She hands me a belt. Okay, fine. I put it on. Greta arms me with a pair of dolls.
I say, “I. Will draw. When my subroutine. Is triggered.”
It’s some pretty harsh robot smack talk
We stalk around each other robotically, our hands brushing our weapons.
Pinky dashes down the next aisle, out of sight. I wheel around and rush to the opposite end of the aisle. I peek around the corner.
No Pinky. Where did she go?
“Gotcha!” Her voice is behind me. How did she do that?
I turn, but she already has dolls in her hands. “Pew pew pew!” She points the little smiling faces at me in rapid succession.
I must play the part that has been laid out for me, in long-standing robot western tradition.
I clasp my chest. “Oh! My central processing unit. Has been. Compromised.” I stagger, falling back against a shelf. “Deactivat….ing.”
I slump to one side and freeze.
Greta claps. Behind her, a few hesitant shoppers also clap. I guess they figure that if Greta’s pleased, they might as well play along.
Maybe they think it’s some sort of performance art.
Pinky’s actually smiling as we return our dolls and belts to the shelf. “That was fun.”
“Yeah. It was.”
We don’t find any other items quite as enjoyable, but we have a good time looking around and trying on some hats. Except for when we realize the things we’re putting on our heads aren’t hats at all. I won’t say what the helpful store clerk tells us they are. Just believe me when I say that they don’t belong on people’s heads.
Just before we finish the last row, Greta notices some faux flowers strung to make necklaces. She plucks one off the hook and puts it on.
“Those remind me of leis,” I say.
“Of what?”
“There’s a beautiful island on Earth, and it’s a tradition there to give arriving visitors a lei.”
Pinky gives me a look.
“One of those,” I point at the flower necklace.
“Less interesting, but okay.” Pinky shrugs.
“That sounds nice.” Greta touches the petals of one of the faux flowers. “You know, I’m going to buy all these, and give them to people who board at Mar de la Mar. We’ll have a lot of new passengers coming aboard there, as they leave from their vacations. How nice would it be for the brand ambassador to give them flowers and welcome them aboard?”
She begins pulling all of the leis off the peg and draping them over her arm.
It does sound nice, actually.
We visit a few more shops, then go back to Mr. Renard’s to collect my paintings. When we enter, he’s there rearranging the paintings to fill in the two missing spots.
“Hello there! Mr. Corbeau has your paintings all ready to go.” He ducks through a doorway and reemerges, holding a large box.
I reach for it, but Pinky reaches past me. “Better if I take this one,” she says.
I’m okay with that. “Thanks.”
She bumps my shoulder with her fist, very gently. “You got it.”
I pay, basking for a few more minutes in Mr. Renard’s presence, and then we’re back on the street, returning to the ship.
This has been a great day. I’m not even mad when I hear: Welcome to the Chance 3000: A new experience in elevators.
Greta, holding her big bag of leis, groans.
Please select desired language.
That’s new.
“Earth standard,” I say and hold my breath. I fear it’s going to start talking to me in clicks and beeps or something.
English standard registered. Please state favorite type of bird.
What?
“Flamingo,” Pinky says.
Flamingo registered. Beginning ascent.
During the ride, I’m nervous that at any point, we will be besieged by birds. Or just bird calls piped over the audio speakers. I’m waiting for…something.
We arrive, the doors open, and that’s it. No disasters have befallen us.
You may now depart. Watch out for flamingos.
“Why? What does that mean?” Greta demands.
You may now depart.
“This thing is driving me crazy!” Greta shakes her fist at the speaker, and I’m afraid it will somehow sense that and visit retribution upon us, but nothing happens.
We depart.
Greta takes her bag of leis to her cabin while Pinky carries my paintings all the way to 25J, despite my assurances that I can manage myself.
She apparently doesn’t think I can.
“Thanks, Pinky.” I finally get my paintings at the doorway.
“You bet. Watch out for flamingos!”
She disappears down the corridor.
In my cabin, I check the lightstream for messages from work. I have lots of vacation days stored up, so it’s easy for me to take a day off when we arrive at an interesting port.
No word from work, but I do have a message from Oolloo.
Alimony has been nullified. You don’t have to worry about that anymore. Working to handle the debt situation with my parents. Will update you again soon.
That’s good news. I’d be pleased not to come face-to-face with those loan sharks.
I really should have discussed divorce proceedings with Oolloo. I’d thought about it, but it seemed like such a personal topic for our first real conversation. The next time I talk to her, I’ll definitely bring it up.
It’s getting to be my normal dinner time, but I’m not hungry, thanks to all the Death by Chocolate ice cream—which, by the way, was delicious. Possibly my new favorite. The irony is kind of delicious, too.
Maybe I’ll order a snack later, but I’m going to hang my paintings, and then watch my favorite robot western, They Died with Their Datapacks On.
Next time, I might invite Pinky to watch with me, since she’s a fan, too.
Yeah, I think I will.
8
In the morning, I do a session of fork therapy with Pinky and Greta in the bar.
Afterward, Pinky and I try out a few Cheerful Seagull recipes. Greta makes the perfect test subject, since alcohol doesn’t affect her.
“Too sweet,” she says of my first attempt.
“Too strong,” she says of Pinky’s.
I reduce the amount of passionfruit and up the amount of coconut.
She takes longer before pronouncing, “It’s just missing something. I don’t know. It just doesn’t taste cheerful.”
“Maybe orange juice?” I suggest.
“Might help.”
After sipping Pinky’s second attempt, her lips quiver. “What was that?”
“I added some rare steak.” Pinky looks hopeful. “Good?”
Greta’s shoulders do a little shiver. “No, that does not make people happy.”
“It makes me happy,” Pinky mutters under her breath. She scoops up the glass and takes a drink. “Yeah. That’s good.”
“People like different things,” Greta says. “Let’s come up with a name for your drink.”
“How about a Bloody Scream?” I suggest.
“Nah.” Pinky takes a sip, looking thoughtful.
“A Raw Deal?” Greta offers.
“Nah.”
I think. What would Pinky like? “A Vindictive Vampire!” I say, triumphant.
“Now that, I like.” Pinky raises her glass to me and finishes it off.
Greta and I have breakfast in the bar, as we normally do, then we need to work. Greta has correspondence, and I have numbers to crunch.
“See you back here for dinner?” Greta asks me.
“I’ll have to see how much work there is for me. Maybe.” I’d like to say yes, definitely, I’ll be here. I suspect I’ll have a lot to catch up on, though. Besides, I like to keep her guessing, just a little. You know, to preserve my aura of mystery.
In the end, I do work late into the evening. Sometimes I get involved with my work and don’t even realize hours have passed until my neck is cramping up from holding one position for so long.
As I’m leaning back in my chair, rolling my head from shoulder to shoulder to release the tension, I hear a clatter in the corridor.
Opening the door, I peek out.
Waldorf is there. Crap. I try to close the door quickly but not too quickly to avoid drawing his attention.
