Pew! Pew! - The Quest for More Pew! Read online

  Greta looks startled at first, then she connects the dots and starts giggling. Then we’re falling over each other, laughing hysterically, tears running down our cheeks.

  I start to wind down, but Greta emits a sharp squeal and a snort that get me started again.

  By the time we’re done, my stomach hurts and I’m swiping my hands over my cheeks.

  “You two done?” Pinky hasn’t moved. She and the flamingo watch us.

  “I think so.” I look to Greta.

  She giggles behind her hand, but nods.

  “Okay,” I say, trying to calm myself. “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Pinky, I have a problem with my fishwife. Should I keep avoiding her or find out what she wants?”

  Pinky shrugs, which makes the flamingo nod. “Deal with it. Get it done.”

  Of course she’d say that.

  I look from Pinky to Greta. I trust them. They’ll help me. “Let’s make a plan.”

  ***

  “What plan is there to make?” Pinky asks. She’s crowded into the photo booth with Greta and me, and I keep getting whacked with a flamingo beak every time she turns to look at me. It’s soft and all, but it still hurts when it hits me in the eye.

  Pinky continues. “All we have to do is pick some central location. I’ll stand with Mingo here, and Greta will just be there. Your wife will show up.”

  It might seem like not much of a plan, but I’m sure it’ll work, based on Greta’s luck and Pinky’s sheer strength of will.

  “Right,” I agree. “First, though, let’s get a picture made. We’ve never done that.”

  Greta nods enthusiastically. “Yes!”

  Pinky shrugs and I get thwapped in the nose with a Mingo wing. “Sure.”

  Which, from Pinky, is practically a singing, dancing celebration.

  We take our photo, and each get a copy. This will make a nice memento.

  “You know,” Pinky remarks as we walk along, looking for a suitable location for our fish stakeout. “Mebdarians invented photo booths.”

  “Mm, interesting.” I try to sound convinced.

  “I didn’t know that,” Greta says, with a synthetically bright tone.

  “This looks like a good spot.” Pinky stops next to a cotton candy stand and installs herself like a very large appliance.

  Greta looks to one side and then the other. “Yes, this ought to do.”

  We’re not far from the grotto, and I see a couple of human parents holding handfuls of fish food for their little girl to drop. They’re cute, in a nuclear-family sort of way.

  When Oollooleeloo arrives ten minutes into our vigil, I’m not surprised. I know how Greta’s luck runs.

  I’m startled all the same, though, at coming face-to-face with my wife.

  I wish I could read her, but I don’t know anything about Albacore facial expressions. To me, she looks wide-eyed and kind of crazy. All Albacore do.

  That’s not me being species-ist. That’s just me admitting I know nothing about them, and my frame of reference does not match up with their reality.

  “Charlie,” she says, sounding like she’s gargling.

  “Oh, hello.” I’m so stupid. I ran from her thirty minutes ago like a man with his ass on fire, and then I just say, ‘Oh, hello.’

  “I need to talk to you,” she says.

  “About what?”

  She opens her mouth to speak, then notices Pinky. I guess she assumed I was standing next to some sort of display or decoration, because she stumbles backward and makes a gulping sound.

  Edging away from Pinky, she says, “About our situation.”

  “I’m not cool with paying alimony,” I blurt. “I don’t even know you.”

  “It’s not about that,” she says. “If you give me a few minutes, I can explain.”

  It’s not easy to understand her. I have to concentrate very hard, and after she’s stopped speaking, it takes me a full five seconds to be reasonably certain of what she’s said.

  I look to Greta and Pinky, who nod.

  “Okay.”

  Oollooleeloo points to the grotto. “Can we go over there?”

  Is that outside of Greta’s luck-zone? I look to her and she nods encouragingly, so I agree.

  At the grotto, my wife and I lean against the rail, looking down at the fish, who look at us, their mouths opening and closing, expecting food.

  I look from them, to Oollooleeloo, and feel uncomfortable.

  “I apologize for the suddenness of our nuptials,” she says. “My parents have been pushing me to marry and have kids, but I don’t want kids. I thought if I married a different species, they’d have to leave me alone about that. And when you seemed amenable…”

  “Wait, what do you mean amenable? You asked if I wanted you to show us around, and then things somehow went very wrong.”

  Her semi-transparent eyelids flick closed three times in succession. I suspect this means confusion. “Show you around?”

  “I thought you said, ‘Should we go on the ferry?’”

  She gapes at me. “I said, ‘Should we get married?’”

  “Why would I marry someone I just met, who I can barely understand?” I demand.

  “But…I slapped you across the face.”

  I’m utterly confused. “Yeah, and I thought you were a jerk. That’s why I slapped you back.”

  She puts a hand to her head. “That’s an Albacore wedding ceremony. What is wrong with your people?”

  “Me? Well, we don’t go around hitting each other to get married, I’ll tell you that! We have fancy clothes and lots of floofy words about love and forever and blah blah, then we eat cake and a few years later we sign papers to put an end to it all and pretend it never happened. Like civilized people!”

  We stare at each other. We’re so different, I’m not sure how we’re even supposed to communicate.

  “I didn’t file the alimony papers,” she says. “It was my parents. They took out some bad debt with people they shouldn’t have, and…don’t judge them too harshly. I’ll take care of that so no one will bother you anymore.”

  “Okay. Thanks. It would be nice not to be on the hook.” I cringe. Why did I say that? What a terrible thing to say to a fish person.

  She grimaces, but doesn’t respond.

  “So why are you here?” I ask.

  “I feel guilty,” she says. “I didn’t realize that by marrying you, the people my parents owe money to would take an interest in you.”

  “Wait, what?” My eyes go to Pinky.

  Oollooleeloo wrings her hands. “They said that if they aren’t paid back, they will get the money from you.”

  “I don’t have any money!”

  “You don’t? But you live on a tourist ship, like a bigshot.”

  I grip the railing harder. “Luck, mostly. I make a modest living, but nothing more.”

  “I am sorry.” She blinks at me.

  Is she? Is that what a sorry Albacore looks like?

  “So people are going to come looking for me, and if I don’t pay up, what then?”

  “Not good things,” she admits.

  “How much do they want?”

  “Twenty thousand credits.” She hangs her head.

  “What are your parents doing to get into that kind of debt?”

  “Not good things,” she repeats.

  I wipe my hand over my face. “I’ll have to figure this out. Will you be okay, Oollooleeloo?”

  “Call me Oolloo. And yes, I’ll be fine. Only the males in a family can be beaten to death for their relatives’ misdeeds.”

  Oh. Well, great.

  I’m glad I don’t need to sit down and have dinner with my in-laws, because I don’t think I’d have anything pleasant to say to them.

  “I’ll try to find a way to fix this. I’ll check in with you soon,” she says. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  “Okay. Take care…I guess.” I’m not sure what the standard goodbye is for one’s accidental wife.

  �
�I will take care.” She says it with such vehemence that I think it must mean something else to her.

  As she retreats into the crowd and I rejoin Greta and Pinky, I’m concerned that Oolloo and I might have had another misunderstanding.

  ***

  I’m no longer in the mood to enjoy Garvon VII, so we return to the ship.

  We board the elevator.

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

  Not this again.

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

  “Up!” Greta shouts at it.

  You said, “Up.” Now going up.

  We begin to ascend and I breathe a sigh of relief. I didn’t want to have a whole get-off-and-on-again thing this time.

  Stopping at midpoint.

  “What?” Greta yells toward the speaker. “What midpoint? There’s up, there’s down, and there’s dangling in midair. Nobody wants to get off halfway up to the ship!”

  My Uncle Victor died that way, but I don’t think saying that out loud will help my companions in this situation.

  State your desired destination.

  “Up!” Greta’s screaming now. “Up, you stupid cow! Up!”

  As the elevator resumes its ascent, I hope the Chance 3000 doesn’t take offense to Greta’s directions.

  Would you like to hear a joke?

  “What?” Greta looks confused and outraged at the same time.

  What do you get if you cross a human and an Albacore?

  Now I’m the one who’s confused and outraged. That is just hitting too close to home.

  A Martian. Looks mostly human, but drinks like a fish.

  Even Pinky looks taken aback by that. Insulting three species in one joke is impressive, in an appalling sort of way.

  Arrived at up. You may now depart.

  The doors open.

  We walk back the way we came. First we drop Pinky at her cabin. She has to sling Mingo the flamingo off her back and give him a good shove to fit him through the door before going in herself. Now, Mingo takes up all the space behind her, and, once again, I am thwarted at getting a look at her living space.

  “Don’t worry, Charlie,” she says. “We’ll get all this figured out. There’s something fishy about the whole thing.”

  Is she joking? She looks dead serious, but come on.

  I merely say, “Thanks, Pinky. Goodnight.”

  Next, I drop Greta at her quarters.

  “I hope you had fun, before the whole kneecap-breakers-might-be-after-you thing. I had a great time with you. Even the part in the photo booth was fun.” She smiles, looking all glowy and wonderful.

  “Yeah. Except for that end bit, I had a great time.”

  “We’ll build on that,” she assures me. “Like Pinky said. We’re going to work this out. What is there that the three of us can’t solve? Nothing, that’s what!” She snaps her fingers.

  I wish I had her confidence, but I put on a game smile.

  “Thanks, Greta. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I feel better as soon as I see good old 25J. But before I can go in, the man next door opens his door and peers out at me.

  “You again!” He sounds so accusing.

  “This is my cabin.” I point to it.

  “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. Don’t go getting any ideas! I pay my taxes.”

  His door slams.

  Shaking my head, I go into my cabin. I hope that guy gets off at the ship’s next stop. But my nervousness and anxiety ebb as I go through my evening routine. I’ve always gotten comfort from routine, and there’s something about this cabin that makes me feel safe.

  I hope there’s some truth to that.

  Chapter 3

  In the morning, I feel refreshed and eager for a new day. I’m not sure why. I should be riddled with anxiety about loan sharks hunting me down and making me sleep with the fishes. But I’m home on the Second Chance, and even if that does happen, it won’t be today.

  Outside my cabin, Gus hurries by. Good old Gus was one of the first people I met here, even before Greta and Pinky.

  Even though he appears to be in a hurry, he stops and gives me a courteous nod. “Good morning, Mr. Kenny. How are you today?”

  He refuses to use my first name or be casual in any way. He takes his job very seriously.

  “Surprisingly well, thank you, Gus. How are you?”

  “Fine, fine. Always a good day with the Chance Fleet. Though if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see a disgruntled passenger.”

  “Of course, don’t let me keep you. Did something happen?”

  His chipper smile momentarily dims. “It’s that elevator. We’ve been getting a lot of complaints.”

  I bet they are. But I say only, “Well, good luck.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kenny, and have a wonderful day.”

  I plan on it. I’m making every day count, and not even my current situation will keep me down.

  How amazing is that?

  I feel so awesome about it that I decide this is the moment to write my letter to Dr. Ramalama. Now. Right this minute.

  I return to my cabin, activate the lightstream, and open up the communication tool.

  The spinny thing is spinning, but nothing is happening. I wait.

  How long do you wait on the spinny thing before you start feeling like an asshole? For me, it’s probably about a minute and a half too long. My mojo for this task starts to wane, but I fight through it.

  Fine. I turn the lightstream off and back on again. Again with the spinny thing. I wait not as long this time before turning it off again.

  Dammit.

  I turn it on for the third time, then look for updates. Yeah, there’s one that indicates I need to click to verify all RSTLNE variables and install the GTFO update.

  I do that, then wait.

  I’m not a computer guy, but I am a statistics guy and I can tell you with a ninety-nine point nine percent confidence interval that what happens next is not normal.

  First, the dreaded blue screen of death. Next, a picture of a panda.

  Why? Why a panda?

  A pink screen. What does a pink screen mean? Or maybe it’s fuschia. Is that different than regular pink?

  Now a picture of…well, I’m not sure what that is. It looks like toenail clippings on a beach with the ghost of a smiling octopus in the background.

  My cabin fills with the sound of cheering, clapping, and a very commercial-sounding theme song.

  And then the worst happens. I mean, the absolute worst.

  Welcome to the Chance Lightstream 3000. A new experience in lightstream technology.

  “Fuck!” I scream. “Fuckety mcfuck fuck!” My happy mood is gone.

  Then I freeze in terror. What if this this is voice-activated?

  But the screen creates another pop-up.

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

  “Not bloody likely!” I say, feeling emboldened by its apparent lack of voice interface.

  State your desired tool.

  Is this a double entendre?

  I type, Communication.

  The spinny thing starts spinning, but I regard it with nothing but suspicion. Rightfully so, because it brings up a chatbox and tells me, “Running search for serial killers looking for love.”

  “No! Nonononono! So much no!” Frantically, I click the chatbox, and, mercifully, it closes.

  I take a breath. Dare I try again?

  I type, Write a letter.

  Dictated or typed? I stare at the screen, kind of amazed that this makes sense.

  Typed.

  Finally, the communication tool engages, and I’m now able to write that letter of effing off to Dr. Ramalama. I mean, the notice of termination of services.

  Am I even i
n the mood anymore? Minutes ago, I felt shiny and cheerful. Now I feel disgruntled and crabby.

  Maybe that’s even better.

  Dear Dr. Ramalama, I begin.

  I held a fork yesterday. I have two amazing friends who made that happen. Friends who make me feel safe and accepted and gosh darn it, even interesting. They like having me around. They help me be a better person, and they don’t charge me money for it either.

  I don’t believe I would ever have been able to do something like hold a fork if I had remained on Earth under your care. For this reason, I am hereby informing you that you are no longer my mental healthcare physician.

  I debate about the writing the next part, but if it were Greta, she’d do it. So I do.

  Turns out, all I really needed was some good luck and for someone to genuinely care about me.

  I sign off politely, with my full name: Charles Kenny II, Esquire.

  Don’t be too impressed. The esquire is just something passed down through my mother’s family. It’s not like I earned it.

  On second thought, I add P.S. Would it have killed you to remember my birthday?

  I press the send button before I can second-guess myself. There. It’s done.

  I leave my cabin again. Although I open the door slowly, my neighbor is outside and he drops to a wide-legged, arms-akimbo stance, looking at me warily.

  “You again!” He glares at me.

  “Yes, sir. This is my cabin. I’m your neighbor.” I’m feeling too jaded at the moment to be taken aback by his behavior. Besides, I think he’s crazy.

  I’m unprepared for his response.

  “You got nothin’ on me, copper!” He takes off running. Or at least he walks rapidly with his elbows out, which I presume is what he thinks is running.

  Things are getting weird around here. Is it just the universe or is it my redshirtness bleeding through?

  I make my way through the ship, nodding and greeting people I know. I carefully sidestep the dining room and arrive at Pinky’s bar.

  “Charlie!” Pinky calls to me. “This gentleman would like an Oblivious Flasher. Can you take care of that?”

  I can’t help it. I snicker.

  Pinky gives me the stink eye, so I hustle behind the bar. But I’m still struggling to get hold of myself.

  I turn away and begin mixing. This drink is two parts Singapore brandy (which is not from Singapore, or even from Earth for that matter) and one part iced tea.