I’m not fighting for you.

 

I’m not picking up that laser and joining your war, whatever the cause, whomever it may be against.

 

You thought I wouldn’t figure it out; you believed that Earthlings are stupid and that we’ll grab the weapon you put beside us because we’ll do anything to save our necks once we realize we’re wearing a red shirt.

 

You thought that when we saw sizzling yellow beams slicing the air, vaporizing the purple, crystalline rocks and heptagon-shaped trees that rise into the green clouds high above, that we'd assume—undoubtedly correctly—we’d easily disintegrate, too.

 

You’re wrong.

 

I was about to bite into the pastrami on rye at the Mansion Restaurant on Eighty-Sixth and York when a blinding, white light forced my eyes shut. When I opened them, I found myself on this alien world under two suns orbited by a ringed moon filling a quarter of the sky. Not only that, but a red shirt replaced my light blue blouse.

 

An alien world, how exciting. How perilous!

 

Until then, I’d thought the stories about disappearances worldwide were manifestations of crazy people, but now I know they’re not.

 

A muscular man with blond hair in a tight-fitting red shirt—he looks like a Marine—dashes by and shouts, “Shoot, shoot!” the second before he’s killed.

 

The sickening pandemonium of annihilation is everywhere.

 

You’re clever, I’ll give you that. We’d notice if you transported tens of thousands of Earthlings from a single location. Spreading your body-snatching among one-hundred-ninety-five countries lets you amass an army of tens of thousands of soldiers without anyone being aware. What does it cost you but red shirts and lasers?

 

Us red shirts are expendables.

 

Yikes! That ray was close!

 

I always wondered if laser weapons made a noise like in the movies and on television, and now I know they do, screeching like an amplified train whistle. And another tidbit I didn’t glean from sci-fi books and shows: Even when the beam doesn’t strike you, if it’s close, it stings like a mother as the surrounding air molecules superheat.

 

That pain may be another incentive to pick up a gun and fire back, but this girl’s not barking.

 

The enemy knows to shoot at red shirts, eh? That was part of your plan, too? How many centuries has your army been wearing these red shirts, drawing your enemy’s ire and fire?

 

I’ve seen you in the distance, your hairy, segmented legs, bulbous heads, insect-like eyes, and green shirts. You don’t wear red shirts anymore because you have us.

 

But no way I’m fighting for you. Not as forced labor, not for any reason. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and my plan is to tell those aliens that humans are on their side. Somehow. And without dying.

 

Oh my God! More beams!

 

This is a lousy location, out in the open. I need cover, a safe place to think. I understand the problem, the red shirt, but what’s the solution? How do I stop your enemy from shooting at me when their instinct is to shoot anyone wearing a red shirt?

 

Over there. That’s where I’ve got to go.

 

That meadow, or what passes for a meadow. The tall, leafy plants, the grass that’s a cross between mushrooms and seaweed. If I can make it, I’ll be temporarily safe from laser fire, giving me time to think.

 

Ready, set, go!

 

Pitch left, roll right, and scream as a beam misses my head by a centimeter. The air is metallic, burnt, like smoldering logs in a fading fireplace. Lay flat and still on the sand. Holding my breath, willing myself to be small and invisible, but the red shirt makes me anything but invisible.

 

And go again!

 

My lungs ache as I sprint the final hundred meters to the brush.

 

Faster legs, faster!

 

I notice a buzzing above, a drone shadowing me. Is it a weapon? A surveillance tool? Does it belong to my enemy or my enemy’s enemy?

 

Another blast.

 

“I’m not your enemy!” I scream. “They put the red shirt on me! Don’t shoot!”

 

The next blast vaporizes the turtle-esque creature with two lynx-looking heads crawling beside me. It squeals in agony the instant before it vanishes.

 

Now I also know vaporization is a torturous death.

 

I run faster, my legs fueled by terror.

 

I dive through the last ten meters like a ball out of a canon, simultaneously landing on my head, buttocks, shoulders, and back. That hurt, too, but at least I’m alive.

 

Goo dots my shirt. No, not goo, but the sap from a plant that looks like a venus fly trap with cactus spikes. My shirt’s gold where the fluid spilled on it. I rub my fingers over the sap, trying to get it off, but only smudge the gold color more.

 

Why am I worried about keeping the red shirt clean? Why do I care that—?

 

Wait! The sap’s a dye. I snap the plant in half, spilling gold sap on the ground. Quickly, I rub it over my shirt, and in three minutes, it’s all gold.

 

A rustling in the brush near me.

 

I reach for my laser but realize I never took it.

 

“Who’s there?” a man with a South African accent asks.

 

A human.

 

“I’m Josephine from Earth. Who are you?” I ask as I crawl closer. “Are you okay?”

 

“I’m Kamogelo. I’m uninjured, but my weapon’s depleted, and I’m a red shirt, which means that my days—minutes—are numbered. You can’t remove these shirts, did you know that?” He gasps. “Your shirt’s gold. You’re not a red shirt. Everyone I fought with had red shirts, and they all died, except for me. How—?”

 

“I’ll show you. And then we’ll spread the word. The red shirt rebellion begins now.”