Redshirts

“I don’t know if I believe you,” Abnett said. “What I do know is that this is very definitely the strangest damn thing that’s ever happened to me, and I want to find out what happens next.”

“So you’ll help us,” Dahl said.

“I want to help you, but I don’t know if I can help you,” Abnett said. “Look, I’m just an extra. They allow me onto the set for work, but it’s not like I can bring anyone else in with me. I get a few lines with the regular cast, but otherwise we’re told not to bother them. And I don’t talk to the show runners or other producers at all. I couldn’t get you in to see any of them if I wanted to. And even if I did, I don’t think any of them would believe you. This is Hollywood. We make things up for a living. And the story you’re telling is completely nuts. I tell it to anyone, they’ll just throw me off the set.”

“That might keep you from getting killed a couple of episodes from now,” Hanson said, to Dahl.

Abnett shook his head. “No, they’ll just recast the part with someone who looks enough like me to work,” he said. “You’ll still be killed off. Unless you stay here.”

Dahl shook his head. “We expire in five days.”

“Expire?” Abnett asked.

“It’s complicated,” Dahl said. “It involves atoms.”

“Five days is not a lot of time,” Abnett said. “Especially if you want to kill a show.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Hester said.

“Maybe you can’t help us directly,” Duvall said. “But do you know someone who could? Even as an extra, you know the people who work high up the food chain.”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Abnett said. “I don’t. I don’t know anyone on the show who could move you up the ladder.” His gaze rested on Kerensky, and he suddenly cocked his head. “But you know what, maybe I know someone outside the show who could help you.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Kerensky asked, unsettled by Abnett’s gaze.

“Are those the only clothes you have?” Abnett asked.

“I wasn’t given the option of packing,” Kerensky said. “Why? What’s wrong with the uniform?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the uniform if you’re at Comic-Con, but it’s not going to work for the club I’m thinking of,” Abnett said.

“Which club?” Dahl asked.

“What’s Comic-Con?” Kerensky asked.

“The Vine Club,” Abnett said. “One of those very secret clubs mere mortals can’t get into. I can’t get into it. But Marc Corey rates, barely.”

“Barely,” Dahl said.

“That means he has first-floor access but not second-floor, and definitely not basement,” Abnett said. “For second-floor you have to be the star of your own show, not part of the supporting cast. For the basement, you have to make twenty million a film and get a slice of the gross.”

“I still want to know what Comic-Con is,” Kerensky said.

“Later, Kerensky,” Hester said. “Jesus.” He turned to Abnett. “So, what? We get Kerensky to pose as Marc Corey and get into the club? What does that do?”

Abnett shook his head. “He doesn’t pose as Corey. You have him go to the club and do to him what Andy here did to me. Draw him out and get him interested and maybe he will help you. I wouldn’t tell him you want to kill the show, since that means he’d be out of a regular job. But otherwise maybe you can get him to introduce you to Charles Paulson. He’s the show’s creator and executive producer. He’s the one you have to talk to. He’s the one you have to convince.”

“So you can get us into this club,” Dahl said.

“I can’t,” Abnett said. “Like I said, I don’t rate. But I have a friend who’s a bartender there, and I got him a commercial gig last summer. Kept him from going into foreclosure. So he owes me big. He can get you in.” He looked at them all, and then pointed at Kerensky. “Well, get him in.” He pointed at Duvall next. “And maybe her, too.”

“You keep your friend from losing his house, and he lets two people into a club, and these are equal favors?” Hester said.

“Welcome to Hollywood,” Abnett said.

“We’ll take it,” Dahl said. “And thank you, Brian.”

“Happy to help,” Brian said. “I mean, I’ve sort of become attached to you. Seeing that you’re actually real and all.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Dahl said.

“Can I ask you a question?” Abnett said.

“Sure,” Dahl said.

“The future,” Abnett said. “It really is like it is on the show?”

“The future really is like it is on the show,” Dahl said. “But I don’t know if it’s really the future.”

“But this is your past,” Abnett said. “We’re part of your past. The year 2012, I mean.”

“2012 is in our past, but not this 2012,” Dahl said. “There’s no Chronicles of the Intrepid television show in our past. It doesn’t exist in our timeline.”

“So that means that I might not exist in your timeline,” Abnett said.

“Maybe not,” Dahl said.

“So you’re the only part of me there,” Abnett said. “The only part of me that’s ever existed there.”

“I guess that’s possible,” Dahl said. “Just like you’re the only part of me that’s ever existed here.”

“Doesn’t that mess with you?” Abnett asked. “Knowing that you exist, and don’t exist, and are real and aren’t, all at the same time?”

“Yes, and I have training dealing with deep, existential questions,” Dahl said. “The way I’m dealing with it right now is this: I don’t care whether I really exist or don’t, whether I’m real or fictional. What I want right now is to be the person who decides my own fate. That’s something I can work on. It’s what I’m working on now.”

“I think you might be smarter than me,” Abnett said.

“That’s okay,” Dahl said. “I think you’re better looking than me.”

Abnett smiled. “I’ll take that,” he said. “And speaking of which, it’s time to take you folks clothes shopping. Those uniforms work in the future, but here and now, they’ll get you branded as geeks who don’t get out of the basement enough. Do you have money?”

“We have ninety-three thousand dollars,” Hanson said. “Minus seventy-eight dollars for lunch.”

“I think we can work with that,” Abnett said.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I hate these clothes,” Kerensky said.

“You look good,” Dahl said, assuring him.

“No, I don’t,” Kerensky said. “I look like I dressed in the dark. How did people wear this?”

“Stop whining,” Duvall said. “It’s not like you don’t wear civvies back where we come from.”

“This underwear is itchy,” Kerensky said, tugging.

“If I knew you were this whiny, I never would have slept with you,” Duvall said.

“If I knew you were going to drug me, kidnap me and take me back to the dark ages without my pants, I never would have slept with you,” Kerensky shot back.

“Guys,” Dahl said, and motioned with his eyes to the cabbie, who was studiously ignoring the weirdos in his backseat. “Not so much with the dark ages talk.”

The cab, on Sunset, took a left onto Vine.

“So we’re sure Marc Corey’s still there, right?” Kerensky asked.

“Brian said his friend called as soon as he got there, and would call if he left,” Dahl said. “Brian hasn’t called me since then, so we can assume he’s still in there.”