John Scalzi - Redshirts

Kiss kiss love love,

M

P.S.: Kiss.

P.S.S.: Love.

Samantha buys herself a printer and a couple hundred dollars’ worth of ink and prints out letters and photographs from the collection that she was given a month previously. The original projector had disappeared mysteriously as promised, collapsing into a crumbling pile that evaporated over the space of an hour. Before that happened, Samantha took her little digital camera and took a picture of every document, and video capture of every movie, that she had been given. The digital files remained on the camera card and on her hard drive; she’s printing documents for a different purpose entirely.

When she’s done, she’s printed out a ream of paper, each with a letter from or a picture of Margaret Jenkins. It’s not Margaret’s whole life, but it’s a representation of the life that she lived with her husband; a representation of a life lived in love and with love.

Samantha picks up the ream of paper, walks over to the small portable shredder she’s purchased and runs each sheet of paper through it, one piece at a time. She takes the shredded papers into her small backyard and places them into a small metal garbage can she has also purchased. She packs the paper down so that is loosely compacted, lights a kitchen match and places it into the trash can, making sure the paper catches. When it does, Samantha places the lid on top of the garbage can, set slightly askew to allow oxygen in while keeping wisps of burning paper from floating away.

The paper burns down to ashes. Samantha opens the lid and pours a bucket of beach sand into the trash can, smothering any remaining embers. Samantha goes back into her house to retrieve a wooden spoon from her kitchen and uses it to stir the sand, mixing it with the ashes. After a few minutes of this, Samantha upends the trash can and carefully pours the mixture of sand and ashes into the bucket. She covers the bucket, places it into her car and drives toward Santa Monica.

Hello.

I don’t know what to call you. I don’t know if you will ever read this or if you will believe it even if you do. But I’m going to write like you will read it and believe it. There’s no point in doing it otherwise.

You are the reason that my life has had joy. You didn’t know it, and you couldn’t have known it. It doesn’t mean it’s not true. It’s true because without you, the woman who was my wife would not have been who she was, and who she was to me. In your world, you played her, as an actress, for what I believe was only a brief amount of time—so brief that it’s possible you don’t even remember that you played her.

But in that brief time, you gave her life. And where I am, she shared that life with me, and gave me something to live for. When she stopped living, I stopped living too. I stopped living for years.

I want to start living again. I know she would want me to start living again. To do that I need to give her back to you. Here she is.

I wish you could have known her. I wish you could have talked to her, laughed with her and loved her as I did. It’s impossible now. But at the very least I can show you what she meant to me, and how she lived with me and shared her life with me.

I don’t know you; I will never know you. But I have to believe that a great part of who my wife was comes from you—lives in you even now. My wife is gone, but knowing that you are out there gives me some comfort. I hope that what was good in her, those things I loved in her, live in you too. I hope that in your life you have the love that she had in hers. I have to believe you do, or at the very least that you can.

I could say more, but I believe the best way to explain everything is simply to show you everything. So here it is. Here she is.

My wife’s name was Margaret Elizabeth Jenkins. Thank you for giving her to me, for the time I had her. She’s yours again.

With love,

Adam Jenkins

Samantha Martinez stands ankle deep in the ocean, not too far from the Santa Monica Pier, and sprinkles the remains of Margaret Jenkins’ life in the place where she will have one day been on her honeymoon. She does not hurry in the task, taking time between each handful of ash and sand to remember Margaret’s words, and her life, and her love, bringing them inside of her and letting them become part of her, whether for the first time or once again.

When she’s done, she turns around to walk up the beach and notices a man standing there, watching her. She smiles and walks up to him.

“You were spreading ashes,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

“I was,” Samantha says.

“Whose were they?” he asks.

“They were my sister’s,” Samantha says. “In a way.”

“In a way?” he asks.

“It’s complicated,” Samantha explains.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says.

“Thank you,” Samantha says. “She lived a good life. I’m glad I got to be a part of it.”

“This is probably the worst possible thing I could say to you right this moment,” the man says, “but I swear you look familiar to me.”

“You look familiar to me too,” Samantha says.

“I swear to you this isn’t a line, but are you an actress?” the man asks.

“I used to be,” Samantha says.

“Were you ever on The Chronicles of the Intrepid ?” the man asks.

“Once,” Samantha says.

“You’re not going to believe this,” the man says. “I think I played your character’s husband.”

“I know,” Samantha says.

“You remember?” the man asks.

“No,” Samantha said. “But I know what her husband looks like.”

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.

I wrote this novel in the wake of having worked on a science fiction television show, so before I do anything else, let me make the following disclaimer: Redshirts is not even remotely based on the television show Stargate: Universe . Anyone hoping this is a thinly veiled satire of that particular experience of mine is going to have to be disappointed. Indeed, I would argue that Stargate: Universe was all the things that The Chronicles of the Intrepid wasn’t—namely, smart, well-written and interested in having its science nod in the direction of plausibility.

I was really pleased to have worked on SG:U as its creative consultant; I also had a lot of fun with it. And of course I genuinely enjoyed watching it, both as a fan of the genre and as someone who worked on it and could see where my contributions showed up on the screen. That was cool. I’ve co-dedicated this book to Brad Wright and Joe Mallozzi, the SG:U producers who brought me into the show, but I’d also like to take a moment here to bow deeply to the cast, crew, writers and staff of SG:U as well. It’s a shame it couldn’t have lasted longer, but no good thing lasts forever.