Redshirts

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Three hours and thirty minutes later, Dahl knocked on the door of Lieutenant Kerensky’s private berth. Hester and Hanson were behind him, storage crate and cargo cart in tow.

The berth door slid open and Duvall was inside. “For God’s sake, get in here,” she said.

Dahl looked into the berth. “We’re not all going to fit in there,” he said.

“Then you get in here,” she said. “And bring the crate.” She looked at Hester and Hanson. “You two try to look like you’re not doing something that will get us shot.”

“Swell,” Hester said. Dahl pushed the storage crate into the berth, followed it and then closed the door behind him.

Inside was Lieutenant Kerensky, pantless and passed out.

“You couldn’t put his pants back on him?” Dahl asked.

“Andy, the next time you want to drug into unconsciousness the person you’re screwing, you can do it the way you want to,” Duvall said. “Which reminds me to reiterate that this is definitely a ‘you owe me a fuck’ level of favor.”

“That’s ironic, considering,” Dahl said, nodding in the direction of Kerensky.

“Very funny,” Duvall said.

“How long has he been out?” Dahl asked.

“Not even five minutes,” Duvall said. “It was completely unbelievable. I tried to get him to have a drink with me first—I put that little pill in his tumbler—but he just wanted to get at it. I could tell you what I had to do to get him to take a drink, but that’s more about me than I think you want to know.”

“I’m trying to imagine what that could even mean and I have to tell you I’m drawing a blank,” Dahl said.

“It’s better that way,” Duvall said. “Anyway. He’s out now and if I’m any indication of how effective these little pills are, he’ll be down for several hours at least.”

“Good,” Dahl said. “Let’s get to work.” Duvall nodded and stripped Kerensky’s bunk, lining the bottom of the crate with the sheets and blanket.

“Will he have enough air?” she asked.

“It’s not airtight,” Dahl said. “But maybe you should put his pants back on him now.”

“Not yet,” Duvall said.

“I’m not sure where this is leading,” Dahl said.

“Shut up and let’s get him into this thing,” Duvall said.

Five minutes later, Dahl and Duvall had contorted Kerensky into the storage crate. Duvall took Kerensky’s pants and jacket and stuffed them into a duffel bag.

“Where’s his phone?” Dahl asked. Duvall grabbed it off Kerensky’s desk and tossed it to Dahl, who opened up the text messaging function, typed a note and sent it. “There,” he said. “Kerensky just sent a note that he is on sick leave for his next shift. It’ll be twelve hours at least before anyone comes looking for him.”

“Poor bastard,” Duvall said, looking at the crate. “I do feel bad about this. He’s dim and self-centered, but he’s not really a bad guy. And he’s decent enough in the cot.”

“Don’t need to know,” Dahl said.

“Prude,” Duvall said.

“You can make it up to him later,” Dahl said, and opened the door, on the other side of which stood Hester.

“Thought you guys had started up a game of Parcheesi in there,” he said.

“Don’t you start,” Duvall said. “Let’s get him up on that cart.”

A few minutes later, the four of them and their unconscious cargo were at the door of the shuttle bay.

“Get the shuttle ready,” Dahl said to Hester, then turned to Hanson and Duvall. “And get the cargo into the shuttle as quietly as possible, please.”

“Look who’s all authoritative now,” Duvall said.

“For now let’s just pretend you actually respect my authority,” Dahl said.

“Where are you going?” Hanson asked.

“I have one more quick stop to make,” Dahl said. “Have to pick up some extra supplies.” Hanson nodded and backed the cargo cart into the shuttle bay, Duvall and Hester following. Dahl walked until he found a quiet cargo tunnel and quietly opened the access door to it.

Jenkins was on the other side.

“You know that’s creepy,” Dahl said.

“I’m trying not to waste your time,” Jenkins said. He held up a briefcase. “The leftovers from that mission Abernathy, Q’eeng and Hartnell went on,” he said. “Phones and money. The phones will work with that era’s communication and information networks. Those networks will be slow and rudimentary. Be patient with them. The money is physical money, which they still use where you’re going.”

“Will they be able to tell it’s not real?” Dahl asked.

“They couldn’t last time,” Jenkins said.

“How much is in there?” Dahl asked.

“About ninety-three thousand dollars,” Jenkins said.

“Is that a lot?” Dahl asked.

“It’ll be enough to get you through six days,” Jenkins said. Dahl took the suitcase and turned to go.

“One other thing,” Jenkins said, and then handed him a small box.

Dahl took it. “You really want me to do this,” he said.

“I’m not going with you,” Jenkins said. “So you have to do it for me.”

“I may not have time,” Dahl said.

“I know,” Jenkins said. “If you have time.”

“And it won’t last,” Dahl said. “You know it won’t.”

“It doesn’t have to last,” Jenkins said. “It just has to last long enough.”

“All right,” Dahl said.

“Thanks,” Jenkins said. “And now I think you better get off the ship as soon as you can. Leaving that note from Kerensky was smart, but don’t tempt fate any more than you have to. You’re already tempting it enough.”

“You can’t do this to me,” Kerensky said, in a muffled fashion, from inside the crate. He had woken up five minutes earlier, after sleeping more than ten hours. Hester had been taunting him since.

“That’s a funny thing to say,” Hester said, “considering where you are.”

“Let me out,” Kerensky said. “That’s an order.”

“You keep saying funny things,” Hester said. “From inside a crate. Which you can’t escape from.”

There was a moment of silence at that.

“Where are my pants?” Kerensky asked, plaintively.

Hester glanced over at Duvall. “I’m going to let you field that one,” he said. Duvall rolled her eyes.

“I really have to pee,” Kerensky said. “Really bad.”

Duvall sighed. “Anatoly,” she said. “It’s me.”

“Maia?” Kerensky said. “They got you too. Don’t worry. I won’t let these bastards do anything to you. Do you hear me, you sons of bitches?”

Hester looked over to Dahl disbelievingly. Dahl shrugged.

“Anatoly,” Maia said, more forcefully. “They didn’t get me too.”

“What?” Kerensky said. Then, after a minute, “Oh.”

“‘Oh,’” Duvall agreed. “Now, listen, Anatoly. I’m going to open up the crate and you can come out, but I really need you not to be stupid or to panic. Do you think you can do that?”

There was a pause. “Yes,” Kerensky said.

“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 doppelgänger 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.

“Of course they will,” Dahl said. “I’m him.”