Redshirts

Kerensky said, after a second.
    Duvall smiled and patted his cheek. “I like you just fine, Anatoly,” she said. “I really do. But right now, I need you to focus. Think of this as another away mission.”
    “I always get hurt on away missions,” Kerensky said.
    “Maybe,” Duvall said. “But you always survive.”
    “The Vine Club,” the cabbie said, pulling up to the sidewalk.
    The three of them got out of the cab, Dahl pausing to pay the cabbie. From inside the club, music thumped. A line of young, pretty, studiously posed people waited outside.
    “Come on,” Dahl said, and walked up to the bouncer. Duvall and Kerensky followed.
    “Line starts over there,” the bouncer said, motioning to the pretty, posed people.
    “Yes, but I was told to talk to you,” Dahl said, and held out his hand with the hundred-dollar bill folded in it, like Abnett told him to do. “Mitch, right?”
    Mitch the bouncer glanced down almost imperceptibly at Dahl’s hand, then shook it, deftly scraping the bill out of it as he did so. “Right,” Mitch said. “Talk to me, then.”
    “I’m supposed to tell you that these two are Roberto’s friends,” Dahl said, mentioning the name of Abnett’s bartender friend, and nodding back to Kerensky and Duvall. “He’s expecting them.”
    Mitch looked over at Kerensky and Duvall. If he noted Kerensky’s resemblance to Marc Corey, he kept it to himself. He turned his gaze back to Dahl. “First floor only,” he said. “If they try for the second floor, they’re out on their ass. If they go for the basement, they’re out on their ass minus teeth.”
    “First floor,” Dahl repeated, nodding.
    “And not you,” Mitch said. “No offense.”
    “None taken,” Dahl said.
    Mitch motioned to Kerensky and Duvall and unlatched the rope; audible protests came from the line of pretty, posed people.
    “You got this?” Dahl asked Duvall, as she walked by.
    “Trust me, I got this,” she said. “Stick by your phone.”
    “I will,” Dahl said. The two of them disappeared into the dark of the Vine Club. Mitch latched the rope behind them.
    “Hey,” Dahl said to him. “Where can a normal human go get a drink?”
    Mitch smiled at this and pointed. “Irish pub right up there,” he said. “The bartender’s name is Nick. Tell him I sent you.”
    “Thanks,” Dahl said, and headed up the street.
    The pub was noisy and crowded. Dahl worked his way to the bar and then fished in his pocket for money.
    “Hey, Brian, right?” someone said to him.
    Dahl looked up to see the bartender staring back at him, smiling.
    “Finn,” Dahl said.
    “Nick,” the bartender said.
    “Sorry,” Dahl said, after a second. “Brain freeze.”
    “Occupational hazard,” Nick said. “You get known by your part.”
    “Yeah,” Dahl said.
    “Hey, are you all right?” Nick asked. “You seem a little”—he wiggled his hands—“dazed.”
    “I’m fine,” Dahl said, and made the effort to smile. “Sorry. Just a little strange to see you here.”
    “It’s the life of an actor,” Nick said. “Out of work and bartending. What are you having?”
    “Pick a beer for me,” Dahl said.
    “Brave man,” Nick said.
    “I trust you,” Dahl said.
    “Famous last words,” Nick said, and then headed off to the taps. Dahl watched him working the taps and tried very hard not to freak out.
    “Here you go,” Nick said a minute later, handing over a pint glass. “Local microbrew. It’s called a Starlet Stout.”
    Dahl tried it. “It’s not bad,” he said.
    “I’ll tell the brew master you said so,” Nick said. “You might remember him. The three of us were in a scene together. He got killed by a swarm of robots.”
    “Lieutenant Fischer,” Dahl said
    “That’s the one,” Nick said, and nodded at Dahl’s glass. “Real name is Jake Klein. His microbrewery’s taking off, though. He’s mostly doing that now. I’m thinking of joining him.”
    “And stop being an actor?” Dahl said.
    Nick shrugged. “It’s not like they’re tearing down the doors to get at me,” he said. “I’ve been out here nine years now and that gig on Intrepid was the best thing I’ve gotten so far, and it wasn’t all that great. I got killed by an exploding head.”
    “I remember,” Dahl said.
    “That was what did it for me, actually,” Nick said. He started washing glasses in the bar sink to give the appearance of being busy as he talked. “We did ten takes of that scene. Every time we did it I had