Pew! Pew! - The Quest for More Pew! Page 7

I’m digressing again.

  I roll to a stop on a red-and-white checked blanket, spitting out sand and trying to see. I think there’s egg salad in my hair. And on my neck. I feel kind of squishy and I smell mayonnaise. When I finally get a good look, I see a flurry of pink fists and dark suits and sky and a glimpse of horrified picnickers.

  It’s a vast panorama of so many things. It’s hard to take it all in.

  I find the ground with my fists and push myself upright. Rubbing the sand out of my eyes only seems to get more sand in them. Why are beaches so popular? I can’t imagine anything that sucks this much.

  I hear Pinky’s voice in front of me. “The forks, Charlie! Use the forks!”

  What? I blindly feel around what feels like a sandwich and some soft, globby things that are either devilled eggs or eyeballs.

  There’s no telling what other species bring to a picnic, so I really hope they’re devilled eggs.

  My hands close around the plastic forks.

  What do I do? I can barely see. I think of Greta.

  “Kenogu!” I cry, and throw the forks.

  My hand finds a bottle. Still thinking of Greta, praying it’s water, I uncap it and pour it on my face to rinse my eyes.

  When I can see again, I see three Albacore on the beach, lying limp. And Greta. Oh, wonderful Greta. She’s descending upon me.

  “Charlie, are you all right?” Her arms go around me, and she begins drying my face with something soft.

  “I think so…what happened?” My vision is clearing.

  “You did it! You hit those guys with the forks and they went down like a ton of tuna. I guess they’re horribly allergic to plastic. And then Pinky was on them. It was terrible.”

  It makes no sense, but I feel so discombobulated that I sink into Greta’s arms. It’s the place I never thought I’d be. I might as well go with this. It’s a far better way to die than I ever imagined.

  But I don’t die. My vision clears.

  I’m getting better.

  Actually, I’m just fine.

  Authorities are taking away the Albacore, and my head is in Greta’s lap, and holy crap, this was totally worth it.

  Then I see Oolloo rushing forward, and I start to feel weird. My wife is coming, and here I am in another woman’s lap.

  What a great problem to have!

  I sit up, but keep my arm around Greta. Because I have an excuse to.

  “Charlie, are you okay?” Oolloo drops to her knees in front of me.

  Do Albacore have knees? She seems to.

  I suspect I’ve hit my head harder than I thought. Things are still coming at me in disjointed bits and confused blurs. I don’t want to sound dopey in front of Greta. I want to say something that shows her I’m cool.

  “I’m cool,” I say.

  Fucking A. I totally nailed that.

  “I’m so sorry. I tried to get here sooner. My parents’ debt is handled. You won’t hear from those guys again.” Oolloo looks worried. Her whiskers are all a-tangle.

  “Groovy,” I agree, feeling fine. Greta’s arms are around me, and I can feel her breathing. Her nearness makes me bold. “Can we have a divorce now?” I ask Oolloo. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  “Oh, it’s me, too,” Oolloo assures me. She slaps me.

  “What was that for?” I roar. Actually, if I’m honest, that’s probably more of a whine. But since this is my story, I’m going to characterize it as a roar.

  “Slap me back,” Oolloo says. “Then we’ll be divorced.”

  “You’re a violent culture, aren’t you?” I say. “This would not be at all okay on Earth.”

  I slap her anyway.

  Oolloo’s whiskers wiggle and straighten themselves out. I think she’s smiling at me.

  “You’re a good one, Charlie Kenny. I’m glad I married you.”

  “Uh,” I say. “Likewise?”

  I feel the brush of whiskers on my cheek and my wife is gone. I am now a divorced man. Apparently. I feel instant nostalgia for all that I’ve lost.

  It’s good to have the chance to lose something and not die.

  Pinky helps me to my feet. Whee, suddenly I have no weight at all. That’s definitely egg salad on the back of my neck.

  “You okay, Charlie?”

  “Was this your plan?” I ask.

  “Every bit.” She says it so authoritatively, I instantly believe it.

  “I may be punch-drunk from a sand dune,” I say, “but you look nice in a swimsuit.”

  “I hear that a lot, but thanks.” Pinky swings me up into her arms. “Let’s get you to the medbay.”

  “What about our day at the beach?” I ask.

  “Later.”

  I’m good with that. So I take a nap.

  Chapter 5

  I wake up alone.

  I feel…different. I run my hands over my face and sit up.

  My cabin. I see my two Renard paintings, side by side, creating a panorama that they were secretly always meant to.

  I feel good. The kaleidoscope of beachy images hits me. Loan sharks. Forks. Oolloo. A public divorce.

  Oh, my god. I touched forks. On purpose!

  Leaping out of bed, I perform a display of changing-out-of-my-pajamas-and-into-regular-clothes so swift that even I’m amazed.

  Holy crap, how did I do that? It took, like, two seconds.

  Never mind! I’m riding high, and seizing the moment, and making the most of it, and all those clichés.

  I scramble down the hall to Greta’s quarters. I don’t even pause. I just knock.

  Like a badass.

  No answer, though. That’s a bit of a letdown. But no matter! There are only so many places she could be on this ship.

  I peek into the dining room, and there are forks, but I stare them down. To be clear, I don’t go in to the dining room but I give those forks a staring down that they won’t soon forget.

  No Greta.

  When I look into Pinky’s bar, though, there she is. My heart sighs in relief.

  I love Greta. She may not know it, but I know it and you know it. It’s our secret. For now. Hopefully, not for too much longer. I promise, I’ll do my best to move this along. I’m not like other, more authoritative guys, but I know what it means to be the underdog, and I swear I will not let my unlikely fortune go in vain. I will make this count.

  Stay with me.

  I stride into the bar.

  Greta turns and sees me. “Charlie! How are you feeling?”

  “Good. I’m good.”

  She leaves her seat at the bar and rushes forward to hug me. I hug her back, breathing in the scent of flowers and sweetness and all that is good and Greta.

  “I’m so glad.” She smiles at me and kisses my cheek.

  But not my cheek exactly. It’s kind of further back. You know, closer to my ear. This is definitely not a Good morning, Grandpa! kind of peck, but a Howdy, Sailor kind of kiss.

  Oh, yeah.

  Charlie Kenny has arrived.

  My heart is bursting.

  Over Greta’s shoulder, I see Waldorf arrive. And then arrive again.

  Do I still have sand in my eyes? I pull back to rub them. But yeah. Two Waldorfs.

  What the ever-loving hell?

  Greta notices too, and pulls away. I keep my arm around her. Because, you know.

  The Waldorfs approach the bar. Pinky wears her normal, chewing-bullets expression.

  Seriously. If I hadn’t fallen for Greta first, I’d have fallen for Pinky.

  “Good morning,” Waldorf says, sounding like Good Waldorf. “Can I get some pancakes? And one of those Virgin Whatever-It-Was that you gave me yesterday?”

  “A Virgin Cheerful Seagull?”

  I shoot a look at Pinky. We hadn’t yet agreed on the recipe. She raises an eyebrow at me. Okay. The recipe has been determined. I hope it’s blood free.

  “You got it,” Pinky says. “And you?” she asks Second Waldorf.

  Second Waldorf scowls at her. “I haven’t liked a single t
hing you’ve made. Actually, I’m leaving. You suck!”

  He stalks out, leaving us all astounded.

  Well, except for Pinky. She merely looks unimpressed.

  “Please excuse my brother Statler,” Waldorf says. “He’s always been the negative part of us. I’ve always been the positive. Together, we figure, we balance each other out.”

  Greta, Pinky, and I share a long look. Ohhh.

  This explains a lot.

  “No problem, Waldorf,” Pinky says. “One Virgin Cheerful Seagull coming up, And I’ve ordered pancakes from the dining room. They should arrive shortly.”

  “That’s my girl!” Waldorf praises her. “I knew I could count on you.”

  Amused and perplexed and not knowing quite how to feel, Greta and I join him at the bar.

  That’s right. My arm is still around her shoulders. We sit on stools at the bar, and only then does my arm fall to my side, but you and I know it was around her. For way longer than just a buddy-buddy sort of thing. We’ve gone to the next level.

  I settle into place and sigh. Not a sad sort of sigh, or a disappointed sort. I’m talking more of a sigh of satisfaction. Of belonging.

  There are many kinds of sighs. Don’t rush to judgment on a mere expelling of breath.

  Sandwiched between The Good Waldorf and Greta, with Pinky on the other side of the bar, I feel like I’ve arrived. I’m a redshirt who has endeavored his way into space, has been married and divorced, and who has looked death straight in the eye and thrown sand at it.

  I’m a badass. Not Pinky sort of badass, but as badass a redshirt gets.

  Pinky slaps a drink in front of me. “Friendly Grandma,” she announces.

  I take a sip.

  It’s mild. It has a chicken soup sort of comforting feel, with just a hint of an astringent mothball flavor.

  “Not my favorite,” I admit. Still, it reminds me of my nana. I still haven’t written her a letter. She may be a cyborg and all, but I think whatever part of her is still my nana would be really proud to hear of what I’ve accomplished.

  I’m an anomaly for my people. An outlier. I’ve done things no other redshirt has. And survived it, too. She deserves to hear about it.

  Pinky finishes off the Friendly Grandma, to my relief. Waldorf eats his pancakes. Greta happily pulverizes and eats a lushfruit muffin alongside a tall ice water. I decide to try a lushfruit muffin, too, since I’m being so darn daring.

  Actually, lushfruit is a lot like pineapple. But I’m not going to tell Greta that.

  She doesn’t stay as long as I’d like. She has that promo to shoot down on Mar de la Mar. Pinky and I agree to come down in a few hours to meet her. Afterwards, we’ll do the sightseeing and beach-going that we had intended to do before we got such a raw deal. Holy mackerel, did those loan sharks ever get schooled. Pinky cast a wide net, and then she reeled them right in. They took the bait and ended up green around the gills. That’s what bottom-feeders like them deserve.

  Come on, now that it’s all over, I feel like we can indulge in a few fish jokes. I’m done now. I’ll let you off the hook.

  Okay, now I’m really done.

  When I get back to 25J, I sit down and activate the lightstream. It’s time to take care of something long overdue.

  Dear Nana, I begin. I have some amazing news to share.

  I pause, thinking about everything I have to tell her. There’s so much, and I’ve never been much of a wordsmith. Maybe I should start thinking about a visit.

  I pull up the Second Chance itinerary and start planning. As I do, my eye catches on the photo booth picture of me, Greta, and Pinky. And Greta’s pink flamingo.

  Alone in my cabin, I laugh. Life just keeps getting better and better. Here’s hoping the next chapter is even greater.

  THE END

  — — —

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  Spellslinger

  by Chris Fox

  The Galaxy needs a Hero. Wesley isn’t that guy.

  Wesley is a space archaeologist, the special breed of adventurer willing to brave strange worlds and forgotten nebulas in search of vanished civilizations. Unfortunately, he’s also a coward. When he discovers the key to the greatest treasure ever discovered he’ll have to overcome his allergies, while accidentally saving the galaxy.

  1

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” Wes asked, resting his hand casually on grip of his Welks. The heavy pistol felt massive strapped at his side, and he prayed he wouldn’t have to draw it. The last time he’d fired the weapon his wrist had hurt for three days.

  “Yeah,” the armored, much larger, figure on the barstool next to him said, looming a bit closer. “You’re the guy whose arms I’m about to pull off.”

  Wes considered his options, which seemed markedly limited. The man, if it was a man, wore a full suit of iron grey power armor. He wasn’t familiar with the model, though the fact that it had four arms suggested Ikadian design. If that was the case then only a shot to the faceplate had any chance of penetrating. Unfortunately he wasn’t a very good shot, and given how badly he was shaking his aim would be even worse than usual.

  “Listen, friend,” Wesley drawled, playing for time. He drew on all the frontier holos he’d grown up with, trying to channel the hero. “I don’t know what your quarrel is, but I’ve had a tough day. I just want to have a brandy and get some sleep. What’s say we just pretend we never met, and then we don’t have to make a mess all over the bartender’s nice furniture?”

  “Don’t hold back on account of me,” the bartender chittered, a tall skinny Rhoidian with mottled green skin. His antennae quivered in amusement, the only readable expression on an insectoid face.

  Great. Wes darted a glance at the door. He migh
t be able to keep tables between himself and the door long enough to escape the four armed bully, but if he ran he’d never be able to set foot here again. That would make it impossible to hire a ship, which would make the entire trip a waste of time. He’d have to return to Corentia a failure. There had to be another option.

  The armored figure moved with incredible speed, making his decision for him. The two bottom arms lunged, metallic claws reaching for his waist. At the same time the upper right claw sailed toward his face, and Wes knew that if it connected his jaw would be liquified by the impact. He scrambled backward, his right foot catching on the bottom of the stool. The motion spilled both him and the stool to the pitted metal floor, and he landed heavily on his back as the robotic limbs swung through the space he’d just occupied. Wes snapped up the strap on the holster, wrenching the Welks out and aiming for the faceplate. He squeezed the trigger, elated as the weapon gave a deep boom. He’d remembered to take the safety off this time.

  The armored figure staggered back as his faceplate shattered. Unfortunately, Wes wasn’t in any position to appreciate it. The recoil from the shot snapped the pistol down, and there was a thunderous crack as it crushed his nose. He tasted blood and snot, blinking away tears as he scrambled backwards. Through the shattered faceplate he saw his assailant’s face, and he nearly wet himself as he realized what he was facing. That face was a marbled grey and white, with the angular features of a marbok. The thing inside the armor had a carapace made of stone, and was probably tougher out of the armor than it was in it. His shot to the faceplate hadn’t done more than upset it.

  “Oh vuck,” he muttered, tasting more blood.

  “Why don’t you leave the kid alone, Gantok?” a clear feminine voice rang out, drawing his gaze. “He’s already broken his own nose, and he’s clearly about to wet himself.”

  Wes saw a woman rising from a table just a few feet away. Her garb was similar to his own, a brown duster over black leather pants and a plain white shirt. Her clothing was different though, worn from long use. His own had been purchased just prior to the trip, and had been pristine until he’d bled all over them. The woman took a step toward the marbok, drawing a shotgun from her boot holster. The weapon looked lethal, though it was probably not much of a threat to a marbok. Her face made the gun look friendly. She was maybe forty, with shoulder length blonde hair and frosty grey eyes.