by M. D. Cooper
“Huh. Okay. Well, I’ll have to change my approach to this role, I guess.” Pinky doesn’t appear to be concerned.
For my part, I’m heartened and feeling kind of good about myself. Greta and Pinky are far more worldly than I am, and yet they still have some cultural mix-ups and misunderstandings. I am not as much of a sectarian rube as I thought.
Our food arrives, looking fantastic. The sandwiches are huge and arranged on plates with a garnish on top and some pickled vegetables on the side. For sandwiches, it’s a pretty fancy setup. The pasta looks amazing too, all melty and steamy and wearing its own little green garnish on top.
Greta turns her plate, looking doubtful. “So I can’t cut it?”
“Nope. All hands.” Pinky hefts her sandwich to demonstrate. She takes a huge bite and chews happily.
“Okay…” Greta clamps her hands around the edges of the bread and brings it toward her face. She starts giggling as it approaches.
“So I just bang it into my face?” She’s laughing louder now, drawing some amused looks from other tables.
“Not bang,” I say. “Just, you know, make it face-adjacent.” A bolt of inspiration strikes me. “Like an ice-cream cone! I’ve seen you eat one of those.”
“Right. An ice-cream cone.” Greta’s holding the sandwich in front of her face now, and is eyeing it dubiously. “But that’s soft. You don’t really bite it.”
She opens her mouth and leans forward, only to start laughing again. She sets the sandwich down for her fit of giggles.
Finally, with a deep breath, she hoists the sandwich, opens her mouth, and crams pastrami and rye between her teeth.
She giggles and chews, and she has pastrami on her cheek, but she’s the cutest girl to ever fail to eat a sandwich like a normal person.
She’s trying, though, just as I am heroically ignoring the glint of pointy forks at the table next to us.
All in all, it’s a pretty great lunch.
***
After lunch, we take a look at the gift shop before returning to the ship. Greta needs to prepare for her movie role the next day, and Pinky has a shift to work at the bar.
As we browse the mugs, t-shirts, and novelty oxygen masks, I pay close attention to see if Nana, Pinky, or Greta expresses particular interest in anything. Greta holds an oxygen mask up to her face to show it to me. It’s gray, with big dark circles to see through and giant floppy ears attached to the top. The hose that attaches to the tank makes the entire thing look like an elephant.
She puts it down after we laugh, though, so I don’t think she wants it.
The nice thing about living on a ship in space is that we don’t need to own much, nor do we have space to store it. The down side of that is how hard it is to buy a present for someone in those circumstances. It can’t be just any old thing, because it would take up what little space we have in our cabins, and it’s always awkward to get rid of something you don’t want when it was a gift. Especially if that person might visit your cabin and notice its absence.
We leave the gift shop empty-handed. I’m disappointed I haven’t solved my present-giving puzzle, but still hopeful I’ll figure it out.
As we leave the station to return to the Second Chance, Nana is asking Greta and Pinky lots of questions about the movie they’re going to be in. I fall behind to give them the chance to talk without creating a four-person blockade that would block anyone who might come from the opposite direction.
I notice an odd squeaking from the floor. Oh, that would be just my luck for the station to malfunction while I’m here. A loose floor tile, maybe, sending me plunging fifty feet below. Or a catastrophic structural failure, perhaps.
I hurry ahead. The odds of the culturally iconic International Space Station having a critical failure just as I walk over it are so infinitesimal that it’s ridiculous to even consider. I’ll have to work up those odds later, when I catch up on some of my other work, but I already know it’s got to be at least five standard deviations away from a normal distribution.
But I’m still a redshirt, after all, and I hurry out of there, anyway.
Chapter 2
As the holiday season progresses, Pinky has been gradually upping the cheer factor in her bar. It started with little robot snowmen. There were some up on the wall and smaller figures dotted the tables and the bar. I felt like this was a nod to me, and kind of a symbol of our shared interest in robot westerns. But then she added the light-up shoe display. After that, she hung a pair of giant dinosaur heads near the bar. They wore Santa hats, so I could only guess that she was blending Christmas with some other, more reptilian holiday.
Since I was last in, she’s strung some multicolored lights and garlands with trumpets, gingerbread people, and, most inexplicably, wheels of cheese.
I can’t keep up with all the different traditions from all the many planets, so I just do my best to roll with it.
Nothing thus far in the multi-celebration season has prepared me for the scene that awaits me at Pinky’s bar. The post-dinner hour is in full swing, and the place is packed.
Everyone’s shirtless.
Some wear Santa hats or headbands with little candy canes mounted on tall stalks, but every single person is baring a lot more skin from the waist up than I’m accustomed to seeing outside of a shower room or the beach.
I approach the bar, feeling uncertain and oddly uncomfortable.
Why should I feel uncomfortable? I’m not the one showing my armpit hair to unwary passersby.
A Santa hat appears from below the bar, perched atop the head of someone standing upright. Pinky’s face follows, then her bulging biceps, and then a sturdy-looking athletic bra. Finally, I get a view of a whole lot of pink washboard abs.
“Hey, Charlie. What can I get you?” She asks this as if nothing is out of the ordinary.
“Uh, just a ginger ale, I think. I have some work to do still.” I try to keep my tone casual, as if I feel entirely normal about what’s going on around me. “What’s up with all the shirtlessness?”
“Oh, it’s Tapp Zaff. It’s where everyone goes shirtless and pretends they’re at the beach. Kind of a celebration of the sun. Fun, right?”
“Oodles,” I agree. “It’s okay if I keep mine on, though, right?”
“Sure. Tapp Zaff is a totally do-your-own-thing kind of celebration.”
“Great.”
She hands me a glass but it isn’t full of ginger ale.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Egg nog. You weren’t really in the mood for ginger ale.”
I take a cautious sip. It’s delicious. Thick and creamy, with just a bit of cinnamon and nutmeg.
“You have a gift for choosing drinks for people,” I tell her. “It’s almost like a special power.”
“Too bad Greta’s studying her lines,” she says. “We could have had some fun tonight.”
“Will you study your lines after work?”
“Nah. I’ve got them down already. Greta knows her lines too. She’s just being fussy.”
I love Pinky’s self-confidence. I wish I had just a tiny bit of that. “Are you excited about being in a movie?”
She shrugs. “It’ll be interesting. Something different. We’ll see.”
She doesn’t seem excited, but she’s cool that way.
I decide to get her advice on my gift situation. “Do you have any ideas of what I can get for Greta? I want to get her something she’ll really like, but she doesn’t need or want much.”
Pinky points at me. “You’re lucky. Some girls dream of expensive jewelry or designer hats. Greta’s much more practical.”
“I’m glad for that,” I agree. “But it does make gift giving difficult. I mean, with her luck, if she really wanted something, it would somehow appear.”
“True.” Pinky plucks a red and white striped straw and chews on the end thoughtfully. “You should think of something unique. Something that can’t be bought in a store.”
“You mean, I should
knit her a sweater or something?”
Pinky asks with the straw between her teeth, “Do you know how to knit?”
“No.”
“Then not that. Keep thinking.”
“Okay.” I finish off my egg nog. “I should go. Those statistics aren’t going to analyze themselves.”
Pinky points the mangled end of the straw at me. “Have fun, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sure. Enjoy your Tapp Zaff.”
“I will,” she says, grabbing a huge mug and filling it with beer. “I get fantastic tips whenever I flex my muscles.”
Pinky likes to tease me sometimes, but I have no doubt that she’s telling the truth about this one.
***
The next morning, I’m pleased to find that no one is attempting to assimilate me while I sleep. My hope is that Nana heeded my request to stop breaking in, but I took the extra precaution yesterday of asking Gus, the head porter, to upgrade the lock on my cabin door.
I go down the hall to shower. As I get ready for the day, I feel a sense of optimism stealing over me.
Such a sense, I assure you, is previously unknown to my people. But I feel good, knowing Greta is going to have fun with her movie, and that somehow, some way, I’m going to find the right gifts for her, Pinky, and even Nana.
I don’t know how I’m going to manage it, but I will.
Gus strides my way just as I’m returning to my cabin. “Hey, Gus. Thanks again for getting my lock upgraded. It did the trick.”
“I’m glad, Mr. Kenny. When our guests are happy, I’m happy.”
I’ve never known someone so dedicated to his job. Gus refuses to use my first name, and usually talks like a commercial. Lots of platitudes and assurances.
The elevator has been giving him fits in recent weeks, and it’s secretly been fun to watch him quietly freak out about it.
I feel a little guilty about that, but I can’t help it. The guy is just so tightly wound.
Something wicked within me prompts me to ask, “Any luck with the Chance 3000?”
His carefully schooled professional demeanor cracks into a grimace. “We’ve had no further reports of the lightstream malfunctioning, and I thought we’d returned the elevator to factory settings. It seemed to behave normally for three days. But then a family with young children told me that it had spent a good ten minutes regaling them with dirty limericks.”
He sighs, and seems to be aging before my very eyes.
I take pity on him. I can’t rat out my friend, but I can give him some hints. “Around the time that the Chance 3000 announced itself, had anything unusual happened? Any strange people come aboard? Or…could someone vengeful have been offended?”
Gus shakes his head, then freezes. His eyes widen and bore straight into me. “Are you telling me—”
I hold my hands in front of myself defensively. “I don’t know anything for sure. But is it possible that something you said could have been overheard and taken personally? By someone who has a low tolerance for insults and a large capacity for retribution?”
I’m lying. I know it was Pinky, and I know he insulted her, though I think he did so inadvertently.
Gus pales. “If that were the case, how would I mend the situation?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I don’t think a simple apology would be enough. There’d have to be a certain…what’s the word…penance?”
I see worry and frustration on his face. All of a sudden, his shoulders slump, his professionalism falls away, and he utters a curse word so foul that I’m not even going to share it with you.
Because I care about you and your ability to sleep at night.
But never mind that. Gus is undergoing a transformation before my very eyes. Something’s happening. I truly meant to help, but I seem to have touched the last nerve holding Gus together.
I think I broke Gus.
He unbuttons his perfectly starched and pressed uniform jacket. “I think I’m going to retire.”
“Right now?” A minute ago, he was going about like normal and now he’s giving up. What have I done? Damn my luck!
Greta’s location on board the space station must be too far from the ship. Or maybe it’s that she’s been out of proximity for too long. I’m not sure exactly how my bad luck and her good luck battle it out and settle on something somewhere in the middle, but I’m pretty sure something has reached a tipping point in a bad way.
“First, I’ll apologize. I’ll even let her poke me in the forehead in that really demeaning way she likes. And then I’m taking the day off to think over what I’m going to do with my life,” Gus announced. “If you need anything, please contact my assistant, Fabrizio. Please enjoy your stay aboard the Second Chance.”
Okay, now I know he’s cracked a little. He’s just delivered his standard line, which he hasn’t said to me since I started living aboard the ship. It’s like he’s reverted to his own factory settings. Except for the whole reevaluating-his-life thing. That bit is new.
For a moment, I’m frozen with uncertainty. My bad luck is like a plague that, gone unchecked, could take down the entire starship.
Then I come to my senses. I need to get to Greta. Getting back into her sphere of influence is the only way to stem the tsunami of badness that is surely coming my way.
I throw my toiletry bag into my cabin and bolt for the exit.
***
Just like that, I’m no longer Charlie Kenny, adventurer. I’m once again Charlie Kenny, redshirt. My chest is tight with anxiety, and I feel like there’s not enough air on the ship.
Still, I don’t sprint. I carefully hurry. I know darn well that running will result in a catastrophic fall, perhaps out of an airlock with an inconveniently timed malfunction.
At least I have experience on my side.
As I’m fleeing, I expect something ridiculous to happen. Something nearly impossible. Something that could only happen to me.
Nothing crazy happens.
However, I do nearly run into Nana as she steps out of her cabin.
“Charlie! What’s going on?” Nana asks, falling into step with me. She’s been around for decades longer than I have, and knows that if someone’s running from something, you don’t even stop to think about it. You start running, too.
Now we’re both carefully trotting through the ship toward the space dock.
“Kenogu,” I say. I’m out of breath, and it’s a Mebdarian word anyway, so I doubt she’ll understand.
But being a cyborg comes with certain unexpected areas of knowledge, and she says, “Ah, I see. What do we do about it?”
Pinky taught me about the concept of kenogu, which basically means that shit happens and it’s up to you to make the best of it. Or, at the least, to survive it.
It’s a darn good word, really.
“Greta.” I can only get one word out because between the anxiety and the jogging, I don’t have breath to spare.
“Gotcha. I’m on it!”
Nana runs ahead of me, somehow grabs me, and flings me onto her back.
Now I’m getting a piggyback ride from my nana, and we are hauling. I can barely make out the startled expressions of the people who see us bolting by like the most unlikely competitors at a corporate picnic ever.
We make it onto the station and Nana busts right through the security checkpoint for the production crew. Between her speed and stealth and our element of surprise, we blow right through there.
A sign ahead points the way to the dressing rooms.
“That way!” I stab a finger to the left.
“On it!” Nana shouts.
We start down a hallway and there are like a dozen doors. Rather than take time to stop and knock, Nana gives each one a gentle kick as we go by. Instead of kicking the doors in, she merely makes a small dent.
Naturally the ruckus makes all of the doors open, and startled people emerge.
And there she is. Sweet Greta with her great kindness and understanding, her sense of adventu
re and even greater sense of humor.
She stands in the hallway, where Nana and I have stopped. For whatever reason, I remain on her back.
The love of my life stares at us, her eyes wide. “What the hell?”
“Kenogu,” I say simply.
“Oh, shit.” Greta immediately goes into damage control mode. “Everyone, back in your dressing rooms! Don’t come out until I say so!”
She gestures toward her room. “Hurry.”
Nana pauses, though, on the way in, noticing that no one has done as Greta said. “Well you heard her! Get your asses in there before I give them a pounding you won’t soon forget!”
Greta closes her dressing room door behind us. Nana deposits me on a padded bench, and I put my head in my hands, lamenting the ruins of the day.
This was supposed to be a great day for Greta, and I’ve gone and screwed it up. Her dressing room is little, but has an expensive-looking dressing table and a pile of luxury snack foods on a side table. She should have been able to enjoy this experience.
“What happened?” she asks, eyes intense and voice urgent.
“We messed up the formula somehow,” I said. “I was too far from you, or outside of your zone of influence too long, or something.” I take a breath. “I broke Gus.”
Greta gasps. “Oh no. What happened?”
“We were talking, and I asked about the elevator, and suddenly he was regretting his whole life, I think. He said he was going to reconsider his choices, and maybe retire. And he quit working in the middle of a shift.”
Greta puts a hand to her mouth. “Wow. Okay, not as bad as I feared. I thought, like, you physically broke him. This is bad, too, but we can fix it.”
Now that I’m with her, the tightness in my chest is loosening. My panic is fading. Nothing horrific has ever happened to Greta. Since meeting me, she’s seen highly improbable things, and somewhat inconveniencing things, but nothing awful. As long as I don’t stray too far, we’ll all be fine.
“This came on kind of fast. I’ve only been over here a couple hours. Are you carrying your luck stone?” Greta asks, frowning.
In my head, I envision the little green rock she gave me, saying that she’d held it for a while and it might have absorbed a little of her luck. “No. I left it in my cabin while I showered, so I wouldn’t lose it.”
