Constable Jenkins walked into Weber’s Place.
Ingrid, behind the bar, looked her up and down before pulling a local beer—Earth stock was long gone, and she had no clue when the next shipment would arrive—out of the small fridge at her feet and set it on the counter.
“Scotch,” Jenkins said.
“You don’t need Scotch tonight,” Ingrid said. “You look like you’re on your last legs already. What happened?”
As the owner of the best bar on the mining colony of Odin III, Ingrid had years of experience in reading people.
Jenkins talked of a comms technician who swore he was on a prosperous terraformed planet just yesterday, then he saw a shimmering curtain and appeared in this mining hellhole. Unfortunately, his prints and retinal patterns matched a guy who’d been working the mines for several years. Jenkins wanted to investigate it further, but the damned Galactic brass had told her to close the case. Jenkins didn’t like being told what to do.
Ingrid made all the usual noises, even though it sounded like just another day in the life of one of the Colony’s cops, and it probably wasn’t the real reason Jenkins was upset.
Suddenly Jenkin’s eyes were wide. “Say… I always wanted to ask. How come you never come watch our play? We’re friends, right?”
Ingrid laughed. “Everyone who does those plays is my friend.”
“Then why don’t you ever come?”
“Who’d take care of the bar?”
“One of your bargirl temps. Or hire someone if you can’t trust any of them.”
Ingrid shook her head. “That’s not the way this works. People come in here expecting to see me and to talk to me. If I’m never here, they’ll find a different watering hole.”
“That’s ridiculous. Have you seen the other bars?”
“Trust me,” Ingrid said. “That’s exactly how it works.”
“I still think you should make the effort. It’s one night every three or four months or so. We don’t do that many shows.” Jenkins’ mouth puckered petulantly. Ingrid thought she should have steered the constable clear even of beer. It was obvious that Jenkins was mad at someone, aching for a fight, and Ingrid was the only person nearby.
Fortunately, Ingrid had all the experience she needed to deal with this, and she soon maneuvered Jenkins out the door and in the direction of her house.
Now what? Ingrid wondered, looking over the empty bar. It was too early to close, so she just sat on a chair and debated whether to have a beer.
The air in front of her shimmered. Ingrid tensed, ready to flee. Galactic’s barrier managed to keep most of the serious weirdness away from the settlement, but even the small stuff could be deadly… and when it wasn’t, it could mess up your whole week anyway.
Nothing lethal seemed to be happening, so she peered closer. It might be a mistake to stay in the same room with it, of course, but the thing was mesmerizing.
A figure staggered through the shimmering spot in the air, took a couple of unsteady steps, and tripped over one of the chairs.
“Dammit,” a woman’s voice came from the wreckage.
The curtain of weirdness disappeared, and Ingrid rushed to the other person’s aid. “Are you all right?”
The woman who’d come through the wormhole or whatever looked up at her.
“Holy crap.” They both said it at once, and they both used the same words, which was only to be expected because Ingrid suddenly found herself looking down at her own face.
“What happened?” the Ingrid who’d come through the portal asked.
“Do I look like a Galactic scientist to you?” the real Ingrid replied. At least “real” was how she thought of herself. She supposed the other woman felt the same way.
“No. You look like a night razor imitating a human.”
“Don’t you think my vocabulary is a little over-developed for a razor?”
The second Ingrid shrugged. “Beats me. I’m not a scientist either.”
“I suppose you already know who I am then. I’m Ingrid.”
“Ugh. I hate it when people call me that. I go by Inga.”
“What did you see?”
Inga shrugged. “The air began to wobble. Then I felt something like a hand pushing me through. I tried to resist, but…”
“And here you are.”
Inga looked around. “Is this Weber’s Place?”
“Yup.”
“That’s a relief. I thought I’d been transported. We must just have gotten duplicated.”
Ingrid shook her head. “No. Nothing happened to me. You came from somewhere else.”
“That’s stupid. This is Weber’s Place. It’s on MineCol Fourteen, right?”
Ingrid shook her head. “Odin III, I’m afraid. It’s a mining colony in the Galactic Fourth Administration Zone.”
Inga paled. “Dammit. I mean that sounds exactly like the place I came from…but it’s not called Odin.” She paused. “Please tell me this is a beautiful, peaceful colony with enlightened leadership and where you can get great help to man the bar.”
Ingrid shook her head again. “It’s a dusty mining colony. And weird stuff happens. And I keep the bar open by myself at all hours, even when I happen to have hired someone to help. Even the ones I can trust not to drink the place dry are likely to do something stupid as soon as my back’s turned.”
“Sounds exactly like home,” Inga said.
“Do you know how to get back?” Ingrid asked.
“No. And I’m not sure I want to try, either. People who attempt to play with this kind of crap wind up dead. Galactic’s always putting out reports about when stuff goes wrong.”
“Huh. We have a Galactic here too. They’re in charge of the mine. Well, it seems this is your home now.”
The new woman looked grim. “Damn. What are you going to do? What do we tell people?”
Ingrid thought long and hard before replying. “We don’t.”
“Huh?”
“We don’t tell anyone. I was just thinking about that earlier. Listen…”
§
The two had a bit of a learning curve getting used to each other, but a few weeks later, Ingrid adjusted her dress. It felt rough and starchy against her skin, so accustomed to the work clothes she wore in the bar. The seat was no more than a metal-and-plastic chair, one of a collection of mismatched furniture the company had placed in rows ahead of the makeshift stage.
Her feeling of unease disappeared as the play went on. The thing was absolutely terrible. Whoever had chosen to perform an old-Earth musical comedy had misjudged the singing skills of the cast…and had completely hallucinated if they thought a single member of the company could dance.
But in the incompetence lay the very beauty of the production. What the cast lacked in talent, they made up for in the sheer joy of being up there. Ingrid basked in the feeling of seeing her regulars—her friends—up on the stage expressing joy as opposed to drowning their sorrows in alcohol and lonely talk with their barman.
Ingrid smiled. She knew that, tonight, the bar was in excellent hands, and she didn’t have to worry.
Tomorrow, Inga could have the night off.
New to Odin III? Find out what you’ve been missing!
Check out The Complete Episode Guide.
The Odin Chronicles is on vacation for the rest of August, but will return in September.
Gustavo Bondoni is
novelist and short story writer with over three hundred stories
published in fifteen countries, in seven languages. He is a member of
Codex and an Active Member of SFWA.His latest novel is a dark historic fantasy entitled The Swords of Rasna (2022). He has also published five science fiction novels, four monster books and a thriller entitled Timeless. His short fiction is collected in Pale Reflection (2020), Off the Beaten Path (2019), Tenth Orbit and Other Faraway Places (2010) and Virtuoso and Other Stories (2011).
In
2019, Gustavo was awarded second place in the Jim Baen Memorial Contest
and in 2018 he received a Judges Commendation (and second place) in The
James White Award. He was also a 2019 finalist in the Writers of the
Future Contest.
His website is at www.gustavobondoni.com
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