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soiree,
Commodore
Stockard. Commander of the USS
Stockard
.”
    “Matt taught me how to drive this thing,” Rayna chimed in.
    “At first I worried she couldn’t handle a big rig,” Matt said. “But she’s a natural. Real enthusiastic.”
    It occurred to Jim that he would have no problem putting Commodore Asshole on the garage’s cement floor. He certainly had the means, and Matt just handed him the motive.
    Rayna sensed her brother’s mood. “What he means is, I drove most of the way here,” she offered soothingly. “It’s really not that hard.”
    “I’m sure it’s not,” Jim said. “What do you do for a living, Matt?”
    “That’s ‘Commodore.’”
    “Whatever. What’s your actual job?”
    Rayna frowned. “Jim, during a convention it’s not good form to push people for details about their mundane lives,” she said. “If they want to volunteer information, that’s fine. But—”
    “I’m a software developer for Imp Entertainment,” Matt said. “Worked on a couple of games you’ve probably heard of. D’you know
Shopping Maul
?”
    As a matter of fact, Jim did. He’d played the game several times. It featured a post-apocalyptic shopping center overrun with mutants. You had to go from store to store, buying things while wiping out the bad guys with a chain gun. It was actually pretty challenging. Shooting people while pushing a shopping cart took some getting used to.
    “Sorry, it doesn’t ring a bell,” Jim lied.
    A look of disappointment flashed across Matt’s face.
    “Your loss,” he said. “It was only last year’s hottest first-person shooter game.”
    Matt turned his hands into finger guns and pointed them at Jim’s chest.
    “Ka-pow!” he said. “Ka-pow! Ka-pow!”
    Then he raised the finger guns to his mouth, blew away imaginary smoke, and pretended to holster them.
    Jim tried to think of something to say. He was saved from the attempt when another one of Matt’s passengers descended from the RV. She was Rayna’s age and sported a bobbed black haircut and clunky rectangular glasses. Her uniform consisted of a halter top and miniskirt, plus pointed prosthetic ears and a dagger holstered on her right hip.
    “Jim, this is my friend T’Poc,” Rayna said. “T’Poc, Jim.”
    “Hey,” T’Poc offered.
    Jim heyed her back.
    “T’Poc is a Vulcan officer from the ISS
Enterprise
, which exists in a mirror universe ruled by the barbaric Terran Empire,” Rayna said. “You know, the inside-out dimension where all the good guys are bad guys and Spock has a goatee.”
    “Yeah,” Matt said. “Get her drunk and she’ll show you
her
goatee.”
    “If he’s lucky,” T’Poc smiled.
    “That sounds . . . great,” Jim said uncertainly. “What do you do in the real . . .”
    Rayna shot him a look.
    “I mean, what do you do aboard the evil, mirror-image
Enterprise
?”
    “I’m the commanding officer’s personal yeoman,” T’Poc said. “I assist him in his amoral, selfish quest to claw his way to the top of the command chain. It’s roughly analogous to the job belonging to my counterpart in this universe.”
    “And that would be?”
    “She’s my executive assistant,” Matt said. “Keeps track of all the stuff I’m too busy to remember.”
    “Speaking of which,” she said, “you need to get Gary off the ship. He’s really stinking up the place.”
    Matt sighed, then pounded on the side of the RV.
    “Hey Horta, get your pimply butt out here!” he shouted. “Front and center, mister, before Imp Entertainment decides to replace you!”
    “Coming,” called a voice from inside.
    The door opened once more, and a grossly overweight young man climbed out. Unlike the others, decked out in their full convention splendor, he wore ratty jeans, faded yellow Chuck Taylors, and a threadbare shirt that read “I Stole a Bird of Prey, Resurrected Spock, and Saved the Planet, and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt.”
    He also reeked of putrescence and was spattered with vile