Redshirts

“Anatoly, that little pause you just did suggests to me that what you’re really planning to do is something stupid as soon as we uncrate you,” Duvall said. “So just to be sure, two of my friends here have pulse guns trained on you. If you do anything particularly idiotic, they’ll just blast you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Kerensky said, sounding somewhat more resigned.

“Okay,” Duvall said. She walked over to the crate.

“‘Pulse guns’?” Dahl asked. No one had pulse guns with them. It was Duvall’s turn to shrug.

“You know he’s lying,” Hester said.

“That’s why I have his pants,” Duvall said, and started unlatching the hinges.

Kerensky burst out of the crate, rolled, spied the door and sprinted toward it, flinging it open and throwing himself through it. Everyone else in the room watched him go.

“What do we do now?” Hanson asked.

“Window,” Dahl said. They stood up and walked toward the window, cranking the louvers so they were open to the outside.

“This should be good,” Hester said.

Thirty seconds later Kerensky burst into view, running into the street, whereupon he stopped, utterly confused. A car honked at him to get out of the way. He backed up onto the sidewalk.

“Anatoly, come back in,” Duvall said through the window. “For God’s sake, you’re not wearing pants.”

Kerensky turned around, following her voice. “This isn’t a ship,” he yelled up to the window.

“No, it’s the Best Western Media Center Inn and Suites,” Duvall said. “In Burbank.”

“Is that a planet?” Kerensky yelled. “What system is it in?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Hester muttered. “You’re on Earth, you moron,” he yelled at Kerensky.

Kerensky looked around disbelievingly. “Was there an apocalypse?” he yelled.

Hester looked at Duvall. “You actually have sex with this imbecile?”

“Look, he’s had a rough day,” Duvall said, and then turned her attention to Kerensky. “We went back in time, Anatoly,” she said. “It’s the year 2012. This is what it looks like. Now come back inside.”

“You drugged me and kidnapped me,” Kerensky said, accusingly.

“I know, and I’m really sorry about that,” Duvall said. “I was kind of in a rush. But listen, you have to come back inside. You’re half-naked. Even in 2012, you can get arrested for that. You don’t want to get arrested in 2012, Anatoly. It’s not a nice time to be in jail. Come back inside, okay? We’re in room 215. Just take the stairs.”

Kerensky looked around, looked down at his pantless lower half, and then sprinted back into the Best Western.

“I’m not rooming with him,” Hester said. “I just want to be clear on that.”

A minute later there was a knock on the door. Hanson went to open it. Kerensky strode into the room.

“First, I want my pants,” Kerensky said.

Everyone turned to Duvall, who gave everyone a what? expression and then pulled Kerensky’s pants out of her duffel and threw them at him.

“Second,” Kerensky said, fumbling into his pants, “I want to know why we’re here.”

“We’re here because we landed and hid the shuttle in Griffith Park, and this was the closest hotel,” Hester said. “And it was a good thing it was so close, because your crated ass was not light.”

“I don’t mean the hotel,” Kerensky spat. “I mean here. On Earth. In 2012. In Burbank. Someone needs to explain this to me now.”

This time everyone turned to Dahl.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, it’s complicated.”

* * *

“Eat something, Kerensky,” Duvall said, pushing the remains of the pizza at him. They were in a booth at the Numero Uno Pizza down the street from the Best Western. Kerensky was now wearing pants.

Kerensky barely glanced at the pizza. “I’m not sure it’s safe,” he said.

“They did have food laws in the twenty-first century,” Hanson said. “Here in the United States, anyway.”

“I’ll pass,” Kerensky said.

“Let him starve,” Hester said, and reached for the last piece. Kerensky’s hand shot out and he grabbed it.

“Got it,” Dahl said, and turned his phone—his twenty-first-century phone—around, showing the article to the rest of them. “‘Chronicles of the Intrepid.’” He turned the phone back around to him. “Shows every Friday at nine on something called the Corwin Action Network, which is apparently something called a ‘basic cable channel.’ It started in 2007, which means it’s now in its sixth season.”

“This is completely ridiculous,” Kerensky said, around his pizza.

Dahl looked over to him, and then pressed the screen to open up another article. “And playing Lieutenant Anatoly Kerensky on Chronicles of the Intrepid is an actor named Marc Corey,” he said, flipping the screen around to show Kerensky the picture of a smiling doppelganger in a stylish blazer and open- collared dress shirt. “Born in 1985 in Chatsworth, California. I wonder if that’s anywhere near here.”

Kerensky grabbed the phone and read the article sullenly. “This doesn’t prove anything,” he said. “We don’t know how accurate any of this information is. For all we know, this”—he scrolled up on the phone screen to find a label—“this Wikipedia information database here is compiled by complete idiots.” He handed back the phone.

“We could try to track down this Corey fellow,” Hanson said.

“I want to try someone else first,” Dahl said, and started poking at his phone again. “If Marc Corey is a regular on a show, he’s probably going to be hard to get to. I think we should probably aim lower.”

“What do you mean?” Duvall said.

“I mean, I think we should start with me,” Dahl said, and then turned the phone around again, to a picture of what appeared to be his own face. “Meet Brian Abnett.”

Dahl’s friends looked at the picture. “It’s a little unsettling, isn’t it?” Hanson said, after a minute. “Looking at a picture of someone who is exactly like you but isn’t.”

“No kidding,” Dahl said. “Of course, you all have your own people, too.”

At that, the rest of them started to power up their own phones.

“What does Wikipedia say about him?” Kerensky sneered. He did not have his own phone.

“Nothing,” Dahl said. “He apparently doesn’t meet the standard. I followed the link on the Chronicles of the Intrepid page to a database called IMDB, which had information about the actors on the series. He has a page there.”

“So how do we contact him?” Duvall said.

“It doesn’t have contact information on that page,” Dahl said. “But let me put his name in the search field.”

“I just found myself,” Hanson said. “I’m some guy named Chad.”

“I knew a Chad once,” Hester said. “He used to beat me up.”

“I’m sorry,” Hanson said.

“It wasn’t you,” Hester said. “Either of you.”

“He has his own page,” Dahl said.

“Chad?” Hanson asked.

“No, Brian Abnett,” Dahl said. He scrolled through the page until he found a tab that said ‘Contact.’” Dahl pressed it and an address popped up.

“It’s for his agency,” Dahl said.

“Wow, actors had agents even then,” Duvall said.

“Even now, you mean,” Dahl said, and pressed his screen again. “His agency is only a couple of miles from here. We can walk it.”

“What are we going to do when we get there?” Duvall asked.

“I’m going to get his address from them,” Dahl said.

“You think they’ll give it you?” Hester asked.