Redshirts (23 page)

Dahl smiled at this. “All right,” he said. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

“If Hester’s intestines explode, you let us know,” Duvall said.

“You’ll be the first,” Hanson said, and headed toward the bathroom.

The receptionist at Paulson Productions smiled warmly at Kerensky as he, Dahl and Duvall entered the office lobby. “Hello, Marc,” she said. “Good to see you again.”

“Uh,” Kerensky said.

“We’re here to see Mr. Paulson,” Dahl said, stepping into Kerensky’s moment of awkwardness. “We have an appointment. Marc set it up.”

“Yes, of course,” the receptionist said, glancing at her computer screen. “Mr. Dahl, is it?”

“That’s me,” Dahl said.

“Have a seat over there and I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said, smiling at Kerensky again before picking up her handset to call Paulson.

“I think she was flirting with you,” Duvall said to Kerensky.

“She thought she was flirting with Marc,” Kerensky pointed out.

“Maybe there’s a history there,” Duvall said.

“Stop it,” Kerensky said.

“Just trying to help you rebound after the breakup,” Duvall said.

“Mr. Dahl, Marc, ma’am,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Paulson will see you now. Follow me, please.” She led them down the corridor to a large office, in which sat Paulson, behind a large desk.

Paulson looked at Kerensky, severely. “I’m supposed to be talking to these people of yours, not you,” he said. “You’re supposed to be at work.”

“I am at work,” Kerensky said.

“This is not work,” Paulson said. “Your work is at the studio. On the set. If you’re not there, we’re not shooting. If we’re not shooting, you’re wasting production time and money. The studio and the Corwin are already riding me because we’re behind on production this year. You’re not helping.”

“Mr. Paulson,” Dahl said, “perhaps you should call your show and see if Marc Corey is there.”

Paulson fixed on Dahl, seeing him for the first time. “You look vaguely familiar. Who are you?”

“I’m Andrew Dahl,” he said, sitting on one of the chairs in front of the desk, and then motioned to Duvall, who sat on the other. “This is Maia Duvall. We work on
Intrepid
.”

“Then you should be on set as well,” Paulson said.

“Mr. Paulson,” Dahl repeated. “You should really call your show and see if Marc Corey is there.”

Paulson pointed at Kerensky. “He’s right
there,
” he said.

“No, he’s not,” Dahl said. “That’s why we’re here to talk to you.”

Paulson’s eyes narrowed. “You people are wasting my time,” he said.

“Jesus,” Kerensky said, exasperated. “Will you just call the damn set? Marc’s
there
.”

Paulson paused to stare at Kerensky for a moment, and then picked up his desk phone and punched a button. “Yeah, hi, Judy,” he said. “You on the set?… Yeah, okay. Tell me if you see Marc Corey there.” He paused, and then looked at Kerensky again. “Okay. How long has he been there?… Okay. He been acting weird today? Out of character?… Yeah, okay.… No. No, I don’t need to speak to him. Thanks, Judy.” He hung up.

“That was my show runner, Judy Melendez,” Paulson said. “She says Marc’s been on set since the six-thirty makeup call.”

“Thank you,” Kerensky said.

“All right, I’ll bite,” Paulson said, to Kerensky. “Who the hell are you? Marc obviously
knows
you, or he wouldn’t have set up this meeting. You could be his identical twin, but I know he doesn’t have any brothers. So, what? Are you his cousin? Do you want to be on the show? Is this what this is about?”

“Do you put family members on the show?” Dahl asked.

“We don’t go out of our way to advertise it, but sure,” Paulson said. “A season ago I gave my uncle a part. He was about to lose his SAG insurance, so I put him in for the part of an admiral who tried to have Abernathy court-martialed. I also put in a small role for my son—” He stopped speaking, abruptly.

“We heard about your son,” Dahl said. “We’re very sorry.”

“Thank you,” Paulson said, and paused again. His demeanor had transformed from aggressive producer to something more tired and small. “Sorry,” he said, after a moment. “It’s been difficult.”

“I can’t imagine,” Dahl said.

“Be glad that you can’t,” Paulson said, and reached over on his desk for a picture frame, looked at it, and held it in his hand. “Stupid kid. I told him to be careful handling the bike in the rain.” He turned the frame briefly, showing a picture of him and a younger man, dressed in motorcycle leathers, smiling at the camera. “He never did listen to me,” he said.

“Is that your son?” Duvall asked, reaching out for the frame.

“Yes,” Paulson said, handing over the picture. “Matthew. He had just gotten his master’s in anthropology when he tells me he wants to try being an actor. I said to him, if you wanted to be an actor, why did I just pay for you to get a master’s in anthropology? But I put him on the show. He was an extra on a couple of episodes before … well.”

“Andy,” Duvall said, handing the picture to Dahl. He started at it.

Kerensky came over and looked at the picture Dahl was holding. “You have
got
to be kidding me,” he said.

“What?” Paulson said, looking at the three of them. “Do you know him? Do you know Matthew?”

All three of them looked at Paulson.

“Matthew!”
screamed a woman’s voice, from out of the room and down the hall.

“Oh, shit,” Duvall said, and launched herself out of her chair and out of the room. Dahl and Kerensky followed.

In the lobby, the receptionist had attached herself to Hester, sobbing in joy. Hester stood there, wearing a receptionist, deeply confused.

Hanson saw his three crewmates and came over to them. “We walked into the lobby,” he said. “That’s all we did. We walked into the lobby, and she screams a name and then almost leaps over her desk to get at Hester. What’s going on?”

“I think we found the actor who plays Hester,” Dahl said.

“Okay,” Hanson said. “Who is he?”

“Matthew?” Paulson said, from the hall. He had followed his three guests out of the room to find out what was going on. “Matthew!
Matthew!
” He rushed to Hester, hugged him furiously and started kissing him on the cheek.

“He’s Charles Paulson’s kid,” Duvall said to Hanson.

“The one who’s in a coma?” Hanson said.

“That’s the one,” Dahl said.

“Oh, wow,” Hanson said. “Wow.”

All three of them looked at Hester, who whispered, “Help me.”

“Someone’s going to have to tell them who Hester really is,” Kerensky said. He, Hanson and Duvall all looked at Dahl.

Dahl sighed, and moved toward Hester.

*   *   *

“Are you all right?” Dahl asked Hester. They were in a private hospital room, in which Matthew Paulson lay on a bed, tubes keeping him alive. Hester was staring at his comatose double.

“I’m better off than he is,” Hester said.

“Hester,” Dahl said, and looked out the doorway, where he was standing, to see if Charles Paulson was close enough in the hall to have heard Hester’s comment. He wasn’t. He was in the waiting area with Duvall, Hanson and Kerensky. Matthew Paulson could have only two visitors at a time.

“Sorry,” Hester said. “I didn’t mean it to be an asshole. It’s just … well, now it all makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Dahl asked.

“About me,” Hester said. “You and Duvall and Hanson and Finn all are
interesting,
because you had to have interesting backstories, so you could all get killed off in a contextual way. Finn getting killed by someone he knew, right? You, about to be killed when you go back to Forshan. But I didn’t have anything unusual about me. I’m just some guy from Des Moines who had a B minus average in high school, who joined the Dub U Fleet to see some of the universe before he came back home and stayed. Before I came on the
Intrepid
I was just another sarcastic loner.

“And now that makes sense, because I was never
meant
to do anything special, was I? I really was an extra. A placeholder character who Paulson could pour his kid into until his kid got bored with playing actor and went back to school to get a doctorate. Even the one thing I can do—pilot a shuttle—is just something that got stuck in because the show needed someone in that seat, and why not give it to the producer’s kid? Make him feel
special
.”

“I don’t think it’s like that,” Dahl said.

“It’s
exactly
like that,” Hester said. “I’m meant to fill a spot and that’s it.”

“That’s not true at all,” Dahl said.

“No?” Hester looked up at Dahl. “What’s my first name?”

“What?” Dahl asked.

“What’s my first name?” Hester repeated. “You’re Andy Dahl. Maia Duvall. Jimmy Hanson. Anatoly Kerensky, for Christ’s sake. What’s
my
first name, Andy? You don’t know, do you?”

“You
have
a first name,” Dahl said. “I could look on my phone and find it.”

“But you don’t
know
it,” Hester said. “You never used it. You never call me by it. We’re
friends,
and you don’t even know my full name.”

“I’m sorry,” Dahl said. “I just never thought about calling you anything other than ‘Hester.’”

“My point exactly,” Hester said. “If even my
friends
never think about what my first name might be, that points out my role in the universe pretty precisely, doesn’t it?” He went back to looking at Matthew Paulson, in his coma.

“So, what
is
your first name?” Dahl finally asked.

“It’s Jasper,” Hester said.

“Jasper,” Dahl said.

“Family name,” Hester said. “Jasper Allen Hester.”

“Do you want me to call you Jasper from now on?” Dahl asked.

“Fuck, no,” Hester said. “Who wants to be called Jasper? It’s a ridiculous fucking name.”

Dahl tried to stifle a laugh and failed. Hester smiled at this.

“I’ll keep calling you Hester,” Dahl said. “But I want you to know that inside, I’ll be saying Jasper.”

“If it makes you happy,” Hester said.

“Jasper Jasper Jasper,” Dahl said.

“All right,” Hester said. “Enough. I’d hate to kill you in a hospital.”

They returned their attention to Matthew Paulson.

“Poor kid,” Hester said.

“He’s your age,” Duvall said.

“Yeah, but I’m likely to outlive him,” Hester said. “There’s a change for one of us.”

“I suppose it is,” Dahl said.

“That’s the problem with living in the twenty-first century,” Hester said. “In our world, if he got in the same accident, we could fix him. I mean, hell, Andy, think of all the horrible things that happened to you, and you survived.”

“I survived because it wasn’t time for me to die yet,” Dahl said. “It’s like Kerensky and his amazing powers of recovery. It’s all thanks to the Narrative.”

“Does it matter why?” Hester said. “I mean, really, Andy. If you’re just about dead and you survive and are healed by entirely fictional means, do you really give a shit? No, because you’re not dead. The Narrative knocks us off when it’s convenient. But it’s not all bad.”

“You were just talking about how it all made sense you were a nobody,” Dahl said. “That didn’t sound like you were in love with the Narrative.”

“I didn’t say I was,” Hester said. “But I think you’re forgetting that this meant I was the only one of us not absolutely fated to die horribly for the amusement of others.”

“This is a good point,” Dahl said.

“This show we’re on, it’s crap,” Hester said. “But it’s crap that sometimes works to our advantage.”

“Until it finally kills us,” Dahl said.

“Kills
you,
” Hester reminded him. “
I
might survive, remember.” He motioned to Matthew Paulson. “And if he lived in our world, he might have been saved, too.”

Dahl was silent at this. Hester looked up at him eventually to see Dahl looking at him curiously. “What?”

“I’m thinking,” Dahl said.

“About what?” Hester said.

“About using the Narrative to our advantage,” Dahl said.

Hester squinted. “This involves me in some way, doesn’t it,” he said.

“Yes, Jasper,” Dahl said. “Yes it does.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Charles Paulson opened the door to the conference room where the five of them sat, waiting, followed by another man. “Sorry about the wait,” he told them, and then motioned to the other man. “You wanted to see the show’s head writer, here he is. This is Nick Weinstein. I’ve explained to him what’s going on.”