Redshirts

by John Scalzi

“In other words, crew deaths are a feature, not a bug,” Cassaway said, dryly.

This is the starship Enterprise. It’s fictional. It was on a science fictional drama series. And so are we.”

“I mean that you and I know that in this universe, God is a hack,” he said. “He’s a writer on an awful science fiction television show, and He can’t plot His way out of a box. How do you have faith when you know that?”

I want to warn you that this sounds like a crazy idea,” Jenkins said. “I’m amazed you feel the need to say that anymore,” Hester said.

“So, to recap,” Dahl said. “Kidnap a senior officer, steal a shuttle, fly dangerously close to a black hole, go back in time, find the people making the show, stop them from making it anymore, and then come back to our own time before our atoms divorce us and we disintegrate.”

“Or Borgovian Land Worms,” Hanson said. Weinstein held up a finger. “I was not responsible for those land worms,” he said. “I was out for two weeks with bird flu. The writer who did that script loved Dune. By the time I got back, it was too late. The Herbert estate flayed us for those.”

“You’re using the shoddy world building of the series to your advantage.” “I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yes,” Dahl said.

That’s when I figured it out. I’m the protagonist.”

“So here’s what I think. I think there’s no television show. No real television show. I think that Charles Paulson and Marc Corey and Brian Abnett and everyone else over there are just as fictional as we were supposed to be. I think Captain Abernathy and Commander Q’eeng, Medical Officer Hartnell and Chief Engineer West are the bit players here, and that me and Maia and Finn and Jasper are the people who really count. And I think in the end, you really exist for just one reason.” “What reason is that, Andy?” Hanson said. “To tell me that I’m right about this,” Dahl said.

Because whether fictional or not, on a spaceship, a television show or in something else entirely, he still had work to do, surrounded by his friends and the crew of the Intrepid. And that’s just what he did, until the day six months later when a systems failure caused the Intrepid to plow into a small asteroid, vaporizing the ship and killing everyone on board instantly.

No, no, I’m just fucking with you. They all lived happily ever after. Seriously.

Filled with existential ennui about your place in the universe? Get over yourself. Yes, you’re an inconsequential worm in the grand scope of history. But you’re an inconsequential worm who makes shit up for a living, which means that you don’t have to lift heavy boxes or ask people if they want fries with that. Grow up and get back to work.

But, look, even if it is, I didn’t say what was happening to me was creatively 100% original. I mean, there’s The Purple Rose of Cairo, which had characters coming down off the screen. There’s those Jasper Fforde books where everyone’s a fairy tale or literary character. There’s Denise Hogan’s books where she’s always arguing with her characters and sometimes they don’t listen to her and mess with her plots. My mom loves those. Hell, there’s The Last Action Hero, for God’s sake. Have you seen that? You have? I’m sorry. There’s also the small but telling detail that those are all fictional, and this is really happening to me. Like I said, a subtle difference. But an important one.

As for the joking, well, look. When I was twelve, my appendix burst, and as they were wheeling my ass into the operating room, I asked the doctor, “How will this affect my piano playing?” and he said, “Don’t worry, you’ll still be able to play the piano,” and I said, “Wow! I wasn’t able to before!”

NICK I’m assuming this can’t be real and that I’m having a dream. FINN This is a dream. It doesn’t mean it’s not also real.

Yeah. Fewer deaths wouldn’t hurt, either. But better deaths. We’re all already dead. It’s too late for us. But each of us have people we care about who are still alive, who might pass under your pen, if you want to put it that way. We think they deserve better. And now you know you do too.

Some of you have asked—is it really a hoax? Did I ever really have writer’s block, or was this an exercise in alternate creativity schemes, a weird little side project from someone who writes too many pages about lasers and explosions and aliens? And did my characters ever actually come to life? Well, think about it. I trade in fiction. I trade in science fiction. I make up weird shit all the time. What’s the most logical explanation in a case like this: more fiction, or everything in the blog being really real, and really happening? You know what the most logical answer is. Now you have to ask yourself if you believe it. Think about it and let me know. Until then: Bye, Internet. Nick Weinstein, Senior Writer, The Chronicles of the Intrepid

“I’ve been talking to your family about you, you know. They love you. They all do. They love you and when you had your accident it was like someone came along and stabbed them in the heart. It’s amazing how much love they have for you. But, and again, I can tell you this because you’re me, I can tell they think you need to get your ass in gear. They talk about how you have so many interests, and how you’re waiting for that one thing that will help you achieve your potential, and what I hear is what they won’t say: You need to grow up.

“It wasn’t bad. To be honest I thought I was pretty clever. I was getting away with something in my own way. But then I get here and saw you, brain-dead and with tubes coming out of every part of your body. And I realized I wasn’t getting away with anything. Just like you didn’t get away with anything. You were just born, fucked around for a while, got hit by a car and died, and that’s your whole life story right there. You don’t win by getting through all your life not having done anything.

“I’m going to do the same thing. I’m done drifting, Matthew. Our lives are arbitrary and weird, but if I pull this off—if me and all my friends from the Intrepid pull this off—then we get something that everyone else in our universe doesn’t get: a chance to make our own fate. I’m going to take it. I don’t know how yet. But I’m not going to blow it. “Don’t you blow it either, Matthew. I don’t expect you to know what to do with yourself yet. But I expect you to figure it out. I think that’s a fair request from me, all things considered. “Welcome to your new life, Matthew. Don’t fuck this one up.”

“There are other places your life could have changed,” Samantha says. “Other lives you could have led.” “But it didn’t,” Eleanor says. “And I don’t. I live the life I live, and it’s the only life I have. No one else is out there in the universe living my alternate lives, and even if they were, I wouldn’t be worrying about them because I have my life to live here, now. In my life, I have Lou and Braden and I’m happy. I don’t worry about what else could have been. Maybe that’s lack of imagination on my part. On the other hand, it keeps me from being mopey.”

The man holds out his hand. “I’m Nick Weinstein,” he says. “Hello, Nick,” Samantha says, shaking it. “I’m Samantha.” “It’s nice to meet you,” Nick says. “Again, I mean.” “Yes,” Samantha says. “Nick, I’m thinking of getting something to eat. Would you like to join me?” Now it’s Nick’s turn to smile. “I would like that. Yes,” he says. The two of them head up the beach. “It’s kind of a coincidence,” Nick says, after a few seconds. “The two of us being here like this.” Samantha smiles again and puts her arm around Nick as they walk.