Redshirts

“Of course he does! That’s why he’s nuts,” Finn said.

“That’s not what I mean,” Hanson said. “When you’re nuts, your reasoning is consistent with your own internal logic, but it’s internal logic, which doesn’t make any sort of sense outside your own head.” He pointed at Jenkins. “His logic is external and reasonable enough.”

“Except the part where we’re all fictional,” Finn sneered.

“I never said that,” Jenkins said.

“Gaaah,” Finn said, and pointed to the Enterprise. “Fictional, you unmitigated asshole.”

“It’s fictional,” Jenkins said. “You’re real. But a fictional television show intrudes on our reality and warps it.”

“Wait,” Finn said, waving his hands in disbelief. “Television? Are you fucking kidding me? There hasn’t been television in hundreds of years.”

“Television got its start in 1928,” Jenkins said. “The last use of the medium for entertainment purposes was in 2105. Sometime between those two dates there’s a television series following the adventures of the crew of the Intrepid.”

“I really want to know what you’re smoking,” Finn said. “Because whatever it is, I’m betting I can make a hell of a profit on it.”

Jenkins looked back at Dahl again. “I can’t work like this,” he said.

“Everyone shut up for a minute,” Dahl said. Finn and Jenkins calmed themselves. “Look. I agree it sounds crazy. Even he admits it sounds crazy.” Dahl pointed at Jenkins. “But think about what we’ve seen go on in this ship. Think of how people act here. What’s messed up here isn’t that this guy thinks we’re on a television show. What’s messed up here is that as far as I can tell, at this point, it’s the most rational explanation for what’s going on. Tell me that I’m wrong.”

Dahl looked around at his friends. Everyone was silent. Finn looked like he was barely holding his tongue.

“Right,” Dahl said. “So at least let’s hear the rest of what he has to say. Maybe it gets more nuts from here. Maybe it starts to make more sense. Either way, it’s better than what we have now, which is nothing.”

“Fine,” Finn said, finally. “But you owe us all handjobs.” He sat back down.

“Handjobs?” Jenkins asked Dahl.

“Long story,” Dahl said.

“Well, anyway,” Jenkins said. “You’re right about one thing. It’s messed up that the most rational explanation for what does go on in this ship is that a television show intrudes on our reality and warps it. But that’s not the worst thing about it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Finn said. “If that’s not the worst thing, what is?”

“That as far as I can tell,” Jenkins said, “it’s not actually a very good show.”

CHAPTER TEN

“Red alert!” said Captain Abernathy, as the Calendrian rebel ship fired its torpedoes at the Intrepid. “Evasive maneuvers! Now!” Dahl, standing at his science post on the bridge, positioned his feet for stability as the ship yawed widely, moving its bulk to avoid the nimble guided projectiles headed for it.

You’ll notice that the Intrepid’s inertial dampeners don’t work as well in crisis situations, Dahl remembered Jenkins telling them. The ship could do hairpin turns and loop-de-loops any other time and you’d never notice. But whenever there’s a dramatic event, there goes your footing.

“They’re still coming right at us!” yelled Ensign Jacobs, at the weapons station, tracking the torpedoes.

Abernathy pounded the button on his chair that opened a broadcast channel. “All hands! Brace for impact!”

Dahl and everyone else on the bridge grabbed on to their stations and braced themselves. This would be a good time for a restraint system, Dahl thought.

There was a far crump as the torpedoes hit the Intrepid. The bridge deck swayed from the impact.

“Damage report!” barked Abernathy.

Decks six through twelve will almost always sustain damages during an attack, Jenkins had said. It’s because these are the decks the show has sets for. They can cut away from the bridge for shots of explosions and crew being flung backward.

“Decks six, seven and nine have sustained heavy damages,” Q’eeng said. “Decks eight and ten have moderate damage.”

“More torpedoes!” cried Jacobs. “Four of them!”

“Countermeasures!” yelled Abernathy. “Fire!”

Why didn’t you use countermeasures in the first place? Dahl thought.

In his head, Jenkins answered. Every battle is designed for maximum drama, he said. This is what happens when the Narrative takes over. Things quit making sense. The laws of physics take a coffee break. People stop thinking logically and start thinking dramatically.

“The Narrative”—Jenkins’ term for when the television show crept into their lives, swept away rationality and physical laws and made people know, do and say things they wouldn’t otherwise. You’ve had it happen to you already, Jenkins had said. A fact you didn’t know before just pops into your head. You make a decision or take an action you wouldn’t otherwise make. It’s like an irresistible impulse because it is an irresistible impulse—your will isn’t your own, you’re just a pawn for a writer to move around.

On the view screen, three orange blossoms burned brightly as the Intrepid’s countermeasures took out torpedoes.

Three, not four, Dahl thought. Because having one get through will be more dramatic.

“One’s still heading our way!” Jacobs said. “It’s going to hit!”

There was a violent bang as the torpedo smacked against the hull several decks below the bridge. Jacobs screamed as his weapons station exploded in a shower of sparks, flinging him backward to the deck of the bridge.

Something will explode on the bridge, Jenkins said. That’s where the camera spends nearly all its time. There has to be damage there, whether it makes sense or not.

“Reroute weapons controls!” yelled Abernathy.

“Rerouted!” said Kerensky. “I have them.”

“Fire!” Abernathy said. “Full spread!”

Kerensky smashed his fingers into the buttons of his station. The view screen lit up as pulse beams and neutrino missiles blasted toward the Calendrian rebel, exploding in a constellation of impacts seconds later.

“Direct hits!” Kerensky said, looking at his station for information. “It looks like we cracked their engine core, Captain. We’ve got about a minute before she blows.”

“Get us out of here, Kerensky,” Abernathy said, and then turned to Q’eeng. “Additional damages?”

“Deck twelve heavily damaged,” Q’eeng said.

The door to the bridge opened and Chief Engineer West came through. “And our engines are banged up pretty good,” he said, as though he would have been able to hear Abernathy and Q’eeng’s conversation, through a door, while red alert sirens were blaring. “We’re lucky we didn’t crack our own core, Captain.”

“How long until it’s repaired?” Abernathy asked.

Just long enough to introduce a plot complication, Dahl thought.

“Ten hours would be pushing it,” West said.

“Damn it!” Abernathy said, pounding his chair again. “We’re supposed to be escorting the Calendrian