Second Chance

In the way of many black sites, the facility was a place that no photosynthesizing plant, seeing animal, or rational human being would want to be: interred a thousand feet deep in the cracked desert ground. Greg considered himself to be very rational—at least, more rational than most people—and yet, here he was, standing as still as he could, trying not to be upset by the fact that there was an alien strapped to the operating table before him. This was not what he had pictured when the facility’s chief of staff had briefed him. The alien was not green, not little, and not discernibly a man. It was at least seven feet tall and bright orange. All four of its arms were restrained and so were its two legs, but that did not make him feel better. Nervous sweat coated the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He knew what he was supposed to do with them—pick up the scalpel and begin the procedure.

It should be noted that Greg was not a surgeon. He was a biomedical engineer, and the task at hand was not his forte. He had been ordered to retrieve the extraterrestrial’s robotic implants to figure out what they were used for and potentially appropriate the technology for government use. Could the agency have hired a surgeon to do the dirty work? Probably. Would Greg have preferred that? Very much. Was he in a position to make demands? No.

The implants he would be removing today were embedded in the wrists of all four arms.

He didn’t like that he would be the first person to touch its skin.

Greg’s neural link prosthesis company had worked with the military before, but for much nobler purposes. He never would have associated himself with them if he’d known he would end up here. He breathed in for four seconds, held the oxygen in his lungs for seven, and exhaled for eight. It was a technique his therapist had taught him. It did not help, not one iota. When he got back to society, he would fire her.

⇛⇚

Greg lay in the near darkness of a bunk room, the place where, according to authorities, he was meant to sleep. Sleep wasn’t on the agenda, but there was nothing else to do but try. He’d been stripped of all personal belongings before he was locked in here. He wasn’t complaining, though. He was, in fact, especially glad to no longer be engaged in the medieval work of prying various pieces of metal out of flesh. He’d gotten the implants out of the alien’s wrists without incident and would spend the next morning in a lab, running tests on them. In the afternoon, he would attempt to remove an implant in the back of the alien’s head, which he was sure would be as delightful as it sounded.

He had the innate, human urge to call someone and tell them about all of this, but even if he’d had access to the phone, none of his close friends would believe him. In substitute, he did what he’d done on other solitary nights: he talked to his wife.

“Its blood was blue, Connie,” he said into the darkness. “Like, bright blue. Prussian blue. And it stays that way when exposed to the air. I wish I knew what it was made of. They had an assistant come in and take samples, but I doubt I’ll hear any of the results.” A little while later, he added, “I’m honestly not alarmed that there are aliens—just that I have to be the one to deal with them. Do you know what I mean?”

He closed his eyes even tighter and tried to imagine what she’d say in response. Usually, her voice came naturally to him, but that was when he was lying in the bed they’d shared while she was alive, not on a sheetless cot a thousand feet deep in the Nevadan desert.

⇛⇚

It took a week to get all of the implants out. Well, all but one. The implant in the back of the extraterrestrial’s head was rather firmly rooted. Today—maybe Thursday, or Friday—would be spent trying to remove it again. He’d gotten used to the presence of the alien. It lay very still, and it did not breathe—not in any traditional sense—leading soldiers and scientists alike to theorize that it was dead.

It was on that Thursday or Friday, as Greg clamped the edges of the metal implant and tried to pull it out for the nth time, that he realized that they were wrong. Not because it opened its eyes or moved, but because, in a way that could not be mistaken, it spoke to him.

Its voice was incredibly clear. It pervaded every sense.

“Don’t tell them you can hear me. Don’t be afraid. And don’t just stand there. If you just stop, they’ll get suspicious,” it told Greg.

The pulling. Doesn’t it… hurt? Greg mentally asked after recovering from the initial shock.

“Very much,” it said. “Thanks for that, by the way.” Greg half heartedly tugged at the clamp. How is this… happening? he asked.

“Your mind perceives the meaning I impart and readily decodes it,” the being responded. Oh, Greg said. You speak English really well.

“I see. You’re not very smart,” it observed, not unkindly.

Well, I’m certainly unequipped to be dealing with whatever this is, he offered.

“I am also rather out of my depth,” it confessed. “I have never been stranded on a primitive alien planet before.” After the silence became uncomfortable, the creature did the mental equivalent of clearing its throat, and said, “I am Zakur, the leader of the Eighth Bardongan Battalion.” Then it paused as if to allow the listener to be appropriately impressed by the knowledge. “As I was on my way back to my homeworld after negotiating the end of the Great Galactic War, a rebel fleet of enemy Landarians attacked. They knew they’d lost; they didn’t care. They just wanted to see us suffer. We won the skirmish but our main engine was disabled and we were forced to land here.”

Greg stood in dazed silence.

What? he thought.

“Yes, I know. Senseless. But I should have protected my men. The Landarians are notorious tricksters.”

What? Greg thought more emphatically.

“Of our three thousand, I and two others made it to the escape pods. Tell me, Gregory, how do they fare?”

I don’t know. How do you know my name?

“I know everything about you. As I’ve established, we are communicating telepathically. Therefore, I can see into your mind.”

I have a brain tumor. That’s what this is, Greg rationalized.

“I can tell you for certain that you don’t,” Zakur said.

When Greg had learned about the existence of aliens, he hadn’t been all that surprised. It was a statistical fact that the universe hosted other planets capable of sustaining intelligent life. This, however, was excessive.

He removed the clamp from the implant and placed it on the tool tray. He stripped off his latex gloves, disposed of them in the trash bin, and muttered “No, no, no,” all the way to the door.

“Where are you going?” Zakur, the Leader of the Eighth Bardongan Battalion asked him. When his handler approached him in the dank hallway beyond the operating room, he muttered a brief explanation about his sciatica acting up—which wasn’t exactly a lie—and retreated to the bunk room, the only other place he was allowed to dwell for more than half an hour at a time.

By the time it was evening—or the small, electric clock on the wall claimed it was—Greg had almost convinced himself that he hadn’t, in fact, heard the alien talking to him, that there was no creature in the vast universe called Zakur the Leader of the Eighth Bardongan Battalion, and that the darkness was getting to him.

He had to focus on getting out of here, that’s all—then, he could go home and get a stronger prescription of sleeping pills.

“Connie, the day I’ve had,” he murmured.

“My name is not Connie,” a very distinctive voice replied. “As I’ve said, it’s Zakur.” Greg scrabbled for the light switch, but when the room was illuminated, he discovered that he was still alone. “Gregory, my powers of telepathic communication extend beyond one room,” he explained as if it were obvious. “If you’d like, I will tell you how I am able to do it.”

“No, no thank you. I don’t want that. Just stop talking to me,” he pleaded.

“But why?” Zakur asked.

“Because I don’t want this to be my problem,” he insisted. “I’m just here to figure out what your implants do.”

“You mean my body modifications, the ones you have so savagely been prying out of my skin? They’re very expensive to replace, you know,” Zakur said.

“It’s not up to me,” Gregory replied, totally not pondering the implications of what Zakur had said, and not at all wondering how the economy on Zakur’s planet functioned compared to Earth’s.

“Incidentally, the last implant, the one in the back of my head, is what allows me to communicate with you. It is also the key to my escape.”

“Escape?” Gregory asked.

“The one you’re helping me plan.”

Gregory turned over and buried his face in his pillow. “Nope,” he said, voice muffled. “Do it yourself. I can’t be held liable for this.”

“I have selected you very carefully. You are the weakest link. The implant in the back of my head is damaged, and you must help me repair it. If you do, the reward is great.”

“How great?” he asked.

“As great as you value your life.”

“A threat. That’s classy,” he said.

“Your death wouldn’t be at my hands. I would never harm a lesser creature. It is your own people who plan to kill you.” Gregory tried to scoff, but suddenly, his throat felt weak.

“They wouldn’t kill me,” he protested. “I’m a military contractor, asswipe. Do you know what that means?”

“My name is not asswipe. It is Zakur.”

Heart thrumming, Greg sat up. “They wouldn’t kill me.”

“Oh, but they would. They would make it seem like an accident. You would be hailed as a hero in the news, but buried in an unmarked grave.”

“You don’t seem to understand—they still need me.”

“They recognize your genius in your field—that is why they have brought you here. But this is to be your final purpose,” Zakur intoned. Greg pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and groaned.

“Nope,” he said again.

“Your work, by the standards of your epoch, is impressive,” Zakur seemed to grudgingly admit.

“Shut it.”

“Your neural link prostheses have restored the use of many soldier’s limbs.”

“Yes, they have, and there’s more to come. I’ve already sent the military my blueprints. We’re not just going to replace limbs, we’re going to cure the paralysis in existing ones with nanostructures.”

“And who needs the maker when you have the design?” Zakur asked softly. Greg was silent for a long time. He thought that if he were quiet enough, Zakur would stop paying attention to him, stop trying to trick him. That, of course, didn’t work. “Why did you not tell them you could hear me?” Zakur asked. “If you’re so skeptical of my intentions, why did you do as I asked?”

“Because they wouldn’t believe me, and because it’s not my business to out you. I’m here for a job, and I want to get it done as soon as possible. If I told them, they might send me to a mental hospital, or they might make me stay longer to explain how you’re talking to me.”

“What about your home is so appealing?” Zakur asked.

“What do you mean?” Greg asked. “It’s not in a dark, damp, underground compound.”

“I see it in your mind. It is a very large and silent place. I myself would not take up in such quarters—they are not conducive to wellbeing.”

“Neither are these, but my place is actually very nice by human definition. It has an xbox and a jacuzzi,” Greg snapped.

“Your wife isn’t there, though,” Zakur said.

“I know. She’s dead,” Greg replied.

“She is dead, isn’t she? But you think she’s gone.”

“What do you mean?” Greg shouted. Then, lowering his voice to a livid whisper, he said, “When you die, you die everywhere.”

“Well, not everywhere. She’s inside of you, still, and out there in the beyond, too. And, well, I suppose she does exist in your neighboring universes,” Zakur said. “I’m not confusing you, am I?”

“What?” Greg demanded. “What did you just say?”

“I said, I’m not confusing you, am I?”

“Before that.”

“Ah, yes. The multiverse. You already knew about that as a species, though, didn't you?”

“No?” Greg whispered.

“Oh. I see.”

“You know what? This is what Linda was worried about,” Greg said, Linda being his therapist. “She told me I was repressing my grief and that it would manifest in another way. This must be the other way. I’m not really hearing you. It’s impossible. You’re like something out of a trashy sci-fi novel from the seventies. This whole place is putting stress on my psyche, and it’s causing me to have auditory hallucinations. Sure, aliens are real, but Zakur isn’t.”

“Please stop thinking I’m a figment of your imagination. It is unproductive. And don’t be cross with me. I would have had to convey to you that there are other universes anyway,” Zakur said. “After all, that's how you’re going to help me escape.”

⇛⇚

Greg had always had a talent for ignoring the inconvenient. He had worn his walkman all the way through to the end of his parents’ marriage. He had never once voted in a presidential election nor held strong political views of any kind. He had failed out of medical school and had transitioned immediately to an engineering program without a drop of regret—simply because he’d mastered the art of not thinking about uncomfortable things. This, of course, had all been ruined when he met Connie. She had caused him to start to care about things. If it weren’t for her, he could have gone his entire life without a trouble in the world—and it would have been such a waste.

Because of Connie, he couldn’t effectively ignore Zakur’s voice. Instead, Greg listened to him. He listened for days as he puttered aimlessly around the lab where he was supposed to study the implants. He listened when he should have been sleeping. He listened because he was trying to exterminate the trembling, newborn hope that Zakur had instilled in him when he had said, “But you think she’s gone.”

If he only thought she was gone, was she alive somewhere he could reach?

And how could he get there?

When Greg finally started talking to Zakur again, he still wasn’t sure if the voice he was hearing was real. It didn’t matter, though. If there was even a fraction of a chance that it was possible, he had to go find her.

How do parallel universes relate to your escape plan? Greg asked one afternoon in the lab as he was pretending to examine an implant he’d found in the sole of Zakur’s foot.

“I am so glad you finally asked,” Zakur immediately replied. “The implant in the back of my head—”

Yes, the one that allows you to communicate with me.

“It has another purpose. By itself or when connected to the mainframe of my ship, I can focus on a location in my native timeline, and it will calculate the fastest route there. Oftentimes, it will phase me through several other universes attached to mine at convenient axes to expedite the trip. However, when our ship landed on your planet, the implant was damaged. I can still communicate telepathically, but I can’t phase into other universes, which is why I’ve been playing dead.” Greg paused for a moment, wanting to comprehend, trying to comprehend. “Don’t think about it too hard,” Zakur advised. “Your species hasn’t evolved the mental capacity for such ideas yet.”

Sure, okay, Greg said, equally comforted and offended.

“I need you to repair the implant in the back of my head. As soon as it is fixed, we’ll leave. I’ll drop you off on a part of your planet where you can hide from those that mean you harm.”

I’ve been studying your tech for weeks now, and I’m no closer to understanding it. How am I supposed to repair one of your devices if I don’t know the first thing about how they operate? Greg asked.

“By doing exactly as I say when I say it,” Zakur said.

But what excuse will I have for my actions? Greg challenged.

“I don’t have the cultural context to conceive of an appropriate lie. That’s something you’ll have to take care of,” Zakur replied.

Greg paused. He swallowed nervously, and asked, What’s in it for me?

The telepathic silence indicated Zakur’s incredulity. “You’ll die without my help,” he said.

Greg closed his eyes tightly, exasperated. Say I believe you, he began.

“You should believe me,” Zakur countered. “I’m doing you a service by even telling you at all.”

Yeah, all right. But I don’t want to have to start a new life for nothing.

Zakur laughed. “If you want to die, I can leave you here,” the creature suggested.

No, that’s not what I’m saying, Greg clarified. He sighed, coming to grips with what he was about to ask. So, your implant lets you travel to other universes?

“Yes.”

Could a non-native stay in another universe? he asked.

“...Theoretically,” Zakur answered.

And my wife—Connie—is alive in another universe?

“Gregory,” Zakur intoned. “I know where this is going.”

Where is it going? Greg defiantly asked.

“Do you want to know why people don’t stay in universes that they aren’t components of?” Zakur asked.

Do you want my help or not? Greg asked, suddenly desperate, for he did not want to hear why. All other options for going forward had withered and died as soon as he’d heard that this was a possibility.

Zakur explained anyway.

“You won’t belong there.”

“I don’t belong here, either,” Greg protested aloud. “I don’t belong anywhere without her. I live with that fact everyday.”

“Quiet,” Zakur scolded.

I haven’t belonged since she died, Greg thought.

The alien’s disappointment was tangible. “If you’re giving me no other choice, I’ll do it,” Zakur said.

So began their partnership.

Over the next few days, Zakur detailed how Greg would repair the implant. The damage had less to do with the crash than it did with the earth’s electromagnetic field. It was interfering with the implant’s homing capabilities, and if the device couldn’t locate itself in the multiverse, it couldn’t plot a course. The fix was actually quite simple. If Greg could build something that momentarily shielded Zakur’s implant from the earth’s electromagnetic field, they could escape.

Such a device could be constructed easily. It was called a jammer—which was something Greg had heard of, surprisingly—and it would emit its own electromagnetic field to balance the earth’s. After building it with materials in the lab, he explained to his handler that it would help him get the implant out of the back of Zakur’s head by weakening the device's magnetism.

The day finally arrived when Greg and Zakur would leave the planet, and indeed, the universe. After he put the finishing touches on the jammer, he made the long, dark pilgrimage from the lab to the operating room flanked by soldiers. The jammer was small and oval shaped, and it fit well in the pocket of his lab coat. He was trembling slightly as he grabbed the handle of the door and let himself in. The soldiers remained posted outside the doors, but as Greg already knew that didn’t mean he and Zakur were alone.

He tried to behave normally, but behaved very weirdly in the effort, humming and sweating and wringing his hands. He put on his latex gloves and his goggles, gathered the materials he usually used when trying to pry the device out of Zakur’s head, and elevated the operating table so he could see the implant.

“This is our only chance. Don’t ruin it,” Zakur cautioned.

Thanks to the vote of confidence, Greg shot back. He only had to switch off the jammer and seize one of Zakur’s arms, and they would both be transported to another universe, one where Connie was still alive.

He removed the jammer from his pocket and pressed the top of it. It made no sound, but grew warm in his hand. Shuddering, he placed the other hand on Zakur’s shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut. He held his breath and waited to be atomized, to be turned into pure molecular energy like on Star Trek, and for it all to hurt immensely. But what he felt instead was a breeze. On this alleged breeze, he smelled dirt, brush and petrichor. A harsh heat beat down on his exposed face. Even though his eyes were closed, the sunlight pushed through. Greg tried to peer at his surroundings—and immediately winced. He had been underground for weeks.

Zakur was gone when his eyes adjusted to the light. Greg nodded, hummed very seriously and intellectually, and concluded that he did not know where he was. Well, presumably, it was a desert, but beyond that, nothing else was apparent. Dead ground stretched on for miles in every direction. The sky was lined with smog and the sun shone redly through it. It was hot and dry, and when he swallowed, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His heart had been jackhammering even before he had realized how thirsty he was. But Zakur wouldn’t have just left him stranded to die of thirst, would he? Well, maybe he would. The rather ambiguous terms of their deal were satisfied. Greg was in another universe where Connie was alive—at least, he thought he was—and Zakur had escaped.

Greg sorely wished that he’d asked Zakur more about Bardongan customs. Were they the sort of guys who left their saviors to die in deserts? Were Bardongans a species, or an ethnicity?

It didn’t matter now.

As Greg regarded the desert, and the desert regarded Greg, they decided they didn’t like each other very much. Greg picked a direction and started walking in it, hoping the desert would leave him alone at some point.

It wasn’t long before it did.

Zakur hadn’t stranded him, but had left him on the outskirts of Las Vegas. He could see the distant city as he climbed a low ridge, the only diversity of terrain on the desolate stretch. It still took an hour or two to reach the city, and he was thoroughly exhausted by the time he arrived. It would be a long time, though, before he could rest. Weeks, in fact.

Once upon a time, humans only needed food, water, and shelter to survive. But in the modern world, people also needed ID, which Greg didn’t have. However, with enough effort, he gained a foothold. He found under-the-table work as a dishwasher. He slept in an abandoned Honda Accord. When he had enough cash, he got a motel room, and after that, an apartment with roommates.

The next big purchase was fake documentation—well, documents that had once belonged to someone else—and got himself on track for a real job in medical coding. It wasn’t anything like biomedical engineering, but the certification took just four months, and they needed medical coders so badly that they hired him fresh out of the program.

He was surprised at how mundane it was to live in another universe. Sure, there were a few differences, but they were minor things. Taco Bell’s logo was green and orange instead of pink and purple. Ultimate frisbee was the most popular sport in the United States. He kept cool about it. The only thing that really got under his skin was the fact that he’d left no mark here. He’d only just started noticing his impression on his native timeline. People who would have otherwise been confined to wheelchairs walked the sidewalk in front of him on mechanical legs that he’d designed, patented, and produced. None of that dignity existed here.

He’d have time to make his contributions when he won Connie back.

He always thought of it like that—winning her back. It was his fault that he’d lost her in the first place. If he’d noticed the signs a little earlier, she could have gotten treatment in time. The first thing he’d do when she trusted him enough to listen was get her bloodwork done. Even if it was another universe, one where she hadn’t died, he was going to be careful. After all, there was no third chance.

Connie was easily found on Instagram. She lived in Pasadena, so when he had built up a plausible facade of stability, he rented an apartment in the city, put in for a job transfer, and moved. The apartment was already furnished, which was excellent because he didn’t have the time to make it seem like he’d accumulated a lifetime’s worth of furniture. The fact that she was within reach of him after being sealed away forever made it almost impossible to focus on anything else. He was ready. He knew where, when, and what to do.

They’d met for the first time in true, rom-com fashion by missing their train to work on the same day. He’d known from the way she’d kicked the sealed doors of the train and shouted at the sky that she was his future wife. They’d called in sick and spent the morning together at a coffee shop, sulking. It was their first date. Unfortunately, there was no way to recreate that, so he would settle for joining her gym.

He went late at night the first time because he knew she liked to sneak in at odd hours, but it was a false start; she wasn’t there. The next attempt was at 9 AM. The sight of her from across the room was almost too much to bear. He had to grip the railing of the nearby staircase to keep himself from wandering over to take a closer look.

He stayed at the gym as long as she did, moving haphazardly between machines to give off the impression that he was working out. Despite all his preparation, he couldn’t bring himself to say a thing. Only on the fifth gym visit did he speak to her. It felt like a herculean feat, an innovation. It was, to him, like landing on the moon. She asked if he was using a foam roller. He said no.

On the seventh gym visit, he asked her for tips on form.

On the fifteenth gym visit, he asked her out—and she said yes. That might have been the most terrified he had ever been.

On their first date, he asked her all the questions he already knew the answers to. In his native universe, her favorite movie had been the National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Here, it was The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

On their third date, they went bowling. The crinkle fries were burnt, the alley was packed, and she got the hiccups from laughing like she’d always done. Everything was right and whole.

On their fourth date, they made love in his pre-decorated apartment. When they were done, he breathed in the scent of her hair and tried to decide if it was the same as he remembered.

On their fifth date, they went to the movies. Greg was pleasantly surprised to discover this universe also had a Ryan Reynolds. After the show was over, they repeated the fourth date’s endeavor.

On the seventh date, they got drunk in town, and wandered back to her apartment, singing “Take it Easy” by the Eagles.

On their eighth date, she said that she loved him. It was earlier on in the relationship than he remembered it being. He said that he loved her, too, and wrapped his arms around her while fending off a grief that should no longer exist. Later, he rationalized it into nothing.

The next morning, he scrutinized the color of her eyelashes as she slept.

On their tenth date, he took her to a Red Cross blood drive that was also offering to test for cancer proteins as an incentive measure for donation. Her results came back clean.

On their fifteenth date, he asked her if she believed in parallel universes. She told him that she did not.

On their seventeenth date, they fought, and it was his fault. It was over how she insisted on tipping the waiter in cash instead of including it on the credit card. Afterwards, sitting by himself in his apartment, he punched a hole in his drywall, feeling like he’d committed a mortal sin. If this was a second chance, why had he picked that fight?

On their twenty-first date, they got brunch. He tried to order them mimosas but she would only take black coffee. Every time there was a lull in conversation, she reached for her phone. Her phone case was the same as it had always been—simple, clear—but she liked to keep ticket stubs in it now. Why was that so hard to get used to?

Two more dates, and her sister pulled him aside and insisted that it was time for him to propose.

He remembered when she had done this the first time. It was much earlier, four months into the relationship. A year had passed by now. Connie was alive, and she loved him. She loved him, and her hair smelled different, and her favorite movie was The Rocky Horror Picture Show. She loved him, and he shouldn’t care that she saved their carnival tickets in her phone case.

Why did it matter?

Her eyelashes were definitely the same shade. Connie was exactly physically the same. Well, no she wasn’t. But that was a good thing, because it meant she wouldn’t die on him this time. It meant that he would never have to be alone again.

One night, after dinner with her cousins, he wandered out into the backyard for some fresh air, and while peering up at the night sky, he thought he saw strange lights. After several moments of vain staring, he concluded that it was wishful thinking.

No it wasn’t. He wouldn’t wish for something like that.

He bought a ring. It was not the family ring he had given her the first time, the one his grandmother had worn, but some things would be different. She was still Connie. She was still his soulmate. Just different.

He was going to propose on their thirty-eighth date. He knew the way from his apartment to hers by heart. He was going to go there now and ask her to be his wife. Yes, that’s what he was going to do.

He swerved onto the interstate at the last minute. He defended his actions to himself easily; he just needed to drive around a bit more to work up some confidence. Even though it was the second time he’d done it, proposing was a big deal. He would pull off at the next exit and circle back. He could always circle back. The ring was safely stowed in the center console.

Some eight hours later, after he had passed more exits than he could count, he chucked it out of the window, and it was lost irretrievably to the night. He told himself he wouldn’t feel anything about it until he stopped driving, so he didn’t stop.

He got pulled over by a cop somewhere in Oregon for swerving into another lane. He’d corrected his course, but the officer had seen.

He stopped at a nice hotel after receiving a ticket, and got well acquainted with the minibar. That helped—until it stopped helping and made him even sadder. He scribbled blueprints for prosthetic limbs on hotel stationery and tried to dial Connie’s old phone number. Someone named Julia picked up instead, and told him to take her off the vender’s list, please. He had a hot, drunk shower and stood out on the high balcony, wondering if all the many universes shared an afterlife. He read the Gideon’s Bible. Then, he watched cable porn. He slept. He dreamed. He got up, and kept driving.

He thought, “If I made a mistake, I might as well go all the way.”

He drove to Vegas—somewhere he’d vowed never to return—with a handsome sum of money to spend. He had been planning to go in on a house for him and Connie once he’d established credit.

A week passed in a reverie of malt liquor and poker. In Greg’s opinion, poker was the only skill-based gambling game, and some part of him still railed against the idea of wasting time on rigged events. He figured that, when his savings ran out, he would find somewhere to take a running jump. He didn’t want to have to live on the streets or, God forbid, work.

Greg’s debit card got declined one morning when he tried to pay for a sixty dollar massage. It was a notably awkward final bill to skip, but he wasn’t going to stick around to reap the consequences. He excused himself to retrieve his wallet and walked out of the spa. He had ten dollars cash in his wallet leftover from pre-Vegas days. With it, he bought himself a cheese omelet at a buffet down the street.

Well, this was it. This was his last meal.

Just as he was about to tear into it, gasps of horror sounded behind him.

“It’s all right,” said a distinctly familiar voice. “It’s just a costume, but I know. This one came straight out of Hollywood. I’m just here to meet a friend, and it’s not worth the effort of taking it off.”

When Greg glanced over his shoulder, there he was: Zakur, the leader of the Eighth Bardongan Battalion. He was wearing a large black sport coat that hid one set of his arms, but it didn’t help much. He was, after all, over seven feet tall, orange, and mouthless. He slithered into a seat across from Greg and looked at him intently with bright, purple eyes that had previously always been closed.

Greg swallowed uncomfortably.

“You look terrible,” Zakur said.

“I am terrible.”

“It didn’t work out.”

“It did, though. I was going to propose to her,” Greg insisted.

“You didn’t. How come?”

Greg glared at Zakur. He imagined that his glare was fiery and indomitable, though, to Zakur, whose species was reptilian and millions of years older than humanity, he looked like a prey animal.

“It was lots of things,” he admitted at last after Zakur’s staring had become oppressive.

“I sense your displeasure,” Zakur inferred.

“You must be very wise,” Greg said.

“Since returning as a survivor from the Great Galactic War, I am—and that’s what made me come back for you, Gregory.”

Greg fell silent and stared fiercely into his omelet. He had, just a moment ago, been planning out his suicide. Now, he had been offered a much better option—which was implied by Zakur’s arrival—and he resented the very implication of it.

So he said, “I’m fine.”

“You know, I was trying to help you when I let you come here,” Zakur gently said.

“Oh, really?” Greg demanded.

“I would have stopped you—only, I realized the therapeutic benefits of letting you see that there is no substitute for what you lost.”

“Call me crazy, but I don’t think that it benefitted me at all,” Greg said.

Zakur replied, with a note of defensiveness, “I was trying to help you move on.” Greg peered quizzically up at him, but could think of nothing to say. “It is Bardongan code to assist lifeforms in distress,” he explained.

“Is it also Bardongan code to kiss my ass?” Greg asked.

“No,” Zakur flatly replied. “Let me ask you one thing—what do you miss about your reality?”

“Taco Bell was pink and purple,” Greg growled.

“Be serious.”

“Well, for one thing, I had a purpose,” he murmured in spite of himself. There was something about Zakur’s open eyes. He’d been gazing into them, and had forgotten, for a moment, to be guarded. “Most of my life, I felt useless,” he said. “I had these ideas, but until I went into business, they were only that—ideas. But when my patents went through, when my ideas started helping people, poof—I was somebody. That’s when I met Connie, and that’s the me she loved,” he whispered. “I miss being useful like that.”

“Yes,” Zakur said reverently. “You had forgotten your calling, Gregory. I wanted you to see that there was something to you beyond her.”

“But it’s terrible,” Greg said, voice breaking. “It’s terrible now that she’s gone.”

“Yes, it is, but you yourself aren’t lost alongside her. You are living aimlessly and that is such a waste,” Zakur said.

“Are you here to… you know, take me back?”

Zakur blinked. “Why, no. I’m here as a tourist. I wanted to stay at the Bellagio. Shoot some pool. Drink some iced tea.”

Greg chuckled. “Is that what you think people do here?”

Zakur’s eyes softened, and he said, “I am here to take you back.”

Greg let himself smile. With one of his two visible hands, Zakur pulled a pen out of the pocket of his sports coat—only, it wasn’t a pen. It was Greg’s jammer.

“How does this work again?” the leader of the Eighth Bardongan Battalion asked.

“You just, you know, click the top,” Greg said.

“Ah yes, that’s right,” Zakur said, and after he had placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder, he clicked the top of the jammer.