Unconstant Love

by Timothy J Meyer

  They crash amid good company. The Ortok's basket overflows with cans of sporefin sardines, fillets of spiced zegofish, those packages of homemade sushi with the Zibbian instructions. A lime green spraycan of engine degreaser and a bright blue bottle of Gitterswitch Gin round out the ensemble.

  The Warp Gate Junction in orbit around Arzenka certainly didn't skimp on the seafood. Home of the aquatic Arzenk, the idyllic blue dot occasionally glimpsed out the Junction's bay windows was the sector's largest exporter of fish. As chance would have it, it was also the nearest inhabited system to Borsk's hidden headquarters.

  Cast adrift in the galaxy with nowhere to move their priceless cargo and months removed from true galactic civilization, The Unconstant Lover and her crew, late of the Borsk massacre, needed to make a pit stop. They chose nearby Arzenka to resupply and, consequently, made a little massacre of their own.

  There's something strangely sublime to Odisseus about being advertised to again. They'd spent so many days slogging through the deserts of Gi, dodging the Gitter Consortium's watchful eye and otherwise removed from galactic civilization at large. To be back in the galaxy, back reading adverts and watching holovision and visiting planets that're other colors than stark white, seems like a bizarre luxury.

  To the pirates, Arzenka's dopey little Junction became a junk food paradise, full of all the cheap plastic trappings the galaxy could offer.

  “Carcinocrisps!” exclaims the Captain with glee, like some scripted poster child in a Carcinocrisps advert. With covetous fingers, Nemo snatches a brightly-colored sack off a nearby shelf. Rather than dropping this into his own overflowing basket, he squeezes the bag in a heartfelt embrace. “I forgot you even existed, Carcinocrisps.”

  “Those things'll,” repeats Odisseus by rote, slapping the chiller door closed and stooping to retrieve his overloaded grocery basket, “kill you.”

  Nemo pulls away from his embrace to examine the bag. “That's what it says, yeah.” Impatient to start getting killed, the Captain tears the bag open with a squeal of plastic.

  Some part of Odisseus still sighs inwardly at the sight of his saltbrother tucking merrily into the foul-smelling bag before he's paid for the thing. The Junction's proprieter, a Fivvite with a hole through his heart, probably won't complain, of course, since they weren't really buying so much as stealing these supplies.

  “You got everything?” he asks instead, shifting the weight of his basket and peering down to inspect what's Nemo's getting.

  There's enough junk food in the Captain's basket to give half a hundred toddlers stomach aches. Boxes of Frootie Gooshies are wedged between bottles of chococino fudge syrup. Shit holovision dinners – fish sticks, macaroni and cheese, corn dogs – are stacked atop sacks of salted duzzum rinds. Three bottles of Gitterswitch Gin are stashed perilously close to an innocent looking box of Marshmellow Meteors, implying some dreadful future union.

  “Think so,” Nemo answers around an irresponsibly large mouthful of Carcinocrisps. “Couldn't find those little snack cakes, you know, the green ones? What're those fuckers called?”

  “Pond Scums?” Odisseus grunts, craning his head towards the back of the convenience store. “Pretty sure I saw those,” he mutters, “someplace.”

  “Yeah?” Nemo comments casually, Carcinocrisps falling from his open mouth. “Lemme ask Flask. Flask!” he barks, a spike of sudden volume over the Junction's deathly quiet. “You know if they've got any Pond–”

  “Second aisle, I think,” Flask answers immediately. Soon as he's summoned, he comes hustling closer, his own grocery basket in the crook of his elbow. On the way, he circles around the Iella's bloody corpse and, with a squeamish expression, he's very careful not to get congealing purple blood on his shoes.

  “Seriously?” Nemo screws up his face and peeks into the adjacent aisle to confirm this theory. “Pond Scums!” he exclaims and disappears into the deeper racks of junk food.

  Flask, meanwhile, levels up on the Ortok's right side, collar hiked up and sniffing nervously, like they're about to make a palm-to-palm Spicion deal. His own grocery basket, Odisseus notes, contains every single one of the Junction's cigarettes, in a potpourri of brands, with a single bottle of Gitterswitch Gin tossed in for flavor.

  “We about ready to bounce here, or...?” Flask mutters to Odisseus, hardly audible over the mumbling holovision and the sound of Nemo tearing into the Pond Scums behind them.

  “You know,” Odisseus feels the need to remind him, somewhat bitterly, “nobody here's gonna overhear you.” He makes a weak gesture towards the rest of the Junction, empty save for the pirates. “Nobody here's still alive.”

  “Don't remind me, like,” Flask remarks, still unaccustomed to getting his hands dirty.

  In what was quickly becoming their disturbing new tradition, the crew of The Unconstant Lover hit the lobby of the sleepy little Warp Gate Junction with guns blazing. There was no other recourse, much as the thought soured the Ortok's stomach. With the Consortium's fresh bounty riding high on their heads, they'd instantly become more wanted than free beer and lower taxes.

  There'd been no hope for a quiet in-and-out at Arzenka. The moment that all-too recognizable IZ36 Briza Light Freighter made the Warp Gate, half the random spacers in the shop were laying an impromptu ambush of their own. Bystanders or not, they were eyewitnesses, each and every one of them, and that was something the recently emerged Galactic Menace decided he could not afford.

  These days, the Galactic Menace couldn't afford to be anything but cutthroat.

  Bodies are scattered sporadically across the Junction, just like they'd been on Loceto and Hagara and Xreed during the caper's planning stages. Considering how ill-frequented this border world was, there weren't too many corpses but there were enough to make the two less-than-professional killers uneasy.

  The security cameras were even more important to the Menace and his posse. Each of these waystations came equipped with a set, there to discourage spaceway robbers more than anything. Moira made these her primary targets the moment she passed through the Junction's airlock. In short order, Righty and Lefty reduced the three of them to sparks emplacements and blackened smears against the ceiling.

  In the deathly silence they'd made, then, the Lover's crew did their “shopping”, plundering all the junk food they could carry, free from the inconvenience of cash or cashiers. Only the holovision set, riveted to the wall, kept chattering, midway through a long blast of commercials pushing some all-girl astroglam outfit that was touring Saurian Space at the moment.

  “Ain't too keen,” Flask continues, shuffling his feet anxiously, “on hangin' around, is all. Never know when the next fooker might come through here, like.” He points with his chin towards the far wall's bay viewport, the great ring of the Warp Gate and the blue marble of Arzenka beyond that.

  “I hear ya,” Odisseus agrees and peers up over the nearest shelf, attempting to shout his next question to the Captain. “You got Pond Scums, you got Carcinocrisps – think we can make tracks?”

  “Soon as Moira's outta the shitter,” comes the unseen reply, from a mouth full of green, sugary sludge.

  On cue, the women's bathroom door shunks open, the sound of faulty pipes moaning somewhere inside. Out strides Moira Quicksilver, snapping loose water from her hands, a disquieted expression on her face. “Remind me,” she mentions, her voice a little haunted, “never to be an Arzenk and need to shit.”

  “Yeah,” Nemo concurs, rounding the corner of the aisle. There's an open container of Pond Scums in one elbow, the bag of Carcinocrisps in the other, like he's the proud mother of a pair of radioactive twins. “Their plumbing down there?” he assures them, with vague gestures towards his nether regions, “Ain't pretty. Trust me.”

  When Moira catches a whiff of the Carcinocrisps, she crinkles her nose in disgust. “What flavor are those, anyway?”

  “Uh,” he considers the package a second time. “Honey Mustard Gas,” he reads.

  “I can't believe,” she sq
uints, almost disbelieving, “you're actually putting that in your mouth.”

  “It's what Two-Bit would've wanted,” Nemo reminds her with a condescending cock of the head, “so fuck you.”

  Moira stoops to retrieve a basket that’s lightly packed with bottled water, toothpaste and granola – all ideally positioned to conceal pistachios, chiller cream and Gitterswitch Gin, Odisseus knows. She gives Nemo her traditional look of disdainful superiority. “Still gross.”

  “I would love to fooking leave here,” Flask reminds them wistfully.

  Moira takes her opportunity, spinning on Flask. “Does that mean we can talk about where we're going now? About these mystery contacts of yours?”

  Put on the spot, Flask digs his hands deeper into the pockets of his windbreaker and attempts to play the whole thing off. “Maybe I made a coupla buzzes, you know, real discreet, like.”

  Odisseus is skeptical. “What exactly did you say?”

  “Nothing damning,” Flask is quick to disavow. “Lucky for you blowbags, I still got contacts in the Ring what don't know I've thrown in with the Galactic Menace.”

  “And you said nothing about Thirdseed?”

  Flask screws up his face at the Ortok. “The tree? Get bloomed, man. I ain't braindead.” He pulls both hands, palms up, from his pocket and makes his excuses. “All I said was, I'd come into some cargo, some primo stuff, and was shopping around the Ring for buyers. Details're always sketchy on these kinda deals, trust me, from the get-go.”

  Her suspicion become grudging respect, Moira inclines her chin towards Flask. “How many leads?”

  “Half-dozen, maybe less.” As he shrugs, his windbreaker creases and the items in his cart jostle together. “Can always branch out from there, we can't find somebody with the price point we want.” Wearing a stern expression, he sweeps a finger past the assembled pirates. “That's the thing to remember here, right? Would be very surprised if we don't take a loss. 68 million's gonna be all but impossible from my people, like.”

  Moira gnaws her lower lip a little. “Granted.”

  Something occurs to Odisseus and he scrunches up his muzzle. “What's the first stop?”

  Flask squints through the nearby window as though he could somehow see his first potential buyer somewhere in orbit around Arzenka. “Depends. Qetapi's the closest. Maybe six days, depending on how clean the warp is. Most likely buyer, though,” he stipulates, after a significant moment spent pondering, “is on Pursma and that's another blooming quadrant.”

  “That's what I'm worried about,” the Ortok confesses. “Without a navigator, we've gotta make clean jumps everywhere and use both Gates. Clean jumps that'll get tagged and logged.”

  “Which means bounty hunters,” Moira assess grimly.

  “Best case scenario, that means bounty hunters. Unless we're prepared to commit this,” Odisseus makes a motion of his paw towards the carnage, corpses and broken cameras that lie strewn about the establishment, “everywhere we warp to, I don't see another way 'round that.”

  “A...different ship?” proposes Flask in a progressively quieter voice.

  Like a belligerent brushvezzer provoked from its burrow, Nemo emerges from his bag of Carcinocrisps with crumbs on his chin and murder in his eyes. “Get fucked, you.”

  “Okay, okay.” Flask's hands return to their earlier defensive gesture. “Thought as much. Other option's to hire a new navigator.”

  “A fifth share'll just cut our take all the more,” calculates a skeptical Moira. “Down to something like 13 million apiece.”

  “That's assuming,” Flask reminds her, “we're walking away with 68 million. Which, chances're very good, we won't be.” He shrugs again, shoulders almost touching his ears. “So, who the fook knows?”

  “Hey!”

  Left to his own devices, the Galactic Menace has gone wandering around the Junction, munching on his snacks all the while. When he shouts, he's standing in front of a hunk of smoking machinery, pointing an accusatory finger towards the handful of ditrogen holes burnt clean through its side. “Who the fuck shot the slushie machine?”

  “...the fuck shot the slushie machine...”

  There's a moment of confusion, each pirate scowling and glancing around, searching for the source of the strange echo. It sounded like Nemo's voice but faint, tinny and, significantly, a few seconds delayed. There's only more silence, however, one mirrored by the Lover's crew and they gawp around like idiots.

  A moment later, there's a second voice, this time unfamiliar, drawing all their attention towards the holovision set. “If you're just tuning in, this is the Galactic Menace, caught live on simulcast footage. Long thought missing or dead, he's suddenly reappeared in the Arzenka–”

  “Hey, we're on HV,” comments Nemo pleasantly with a point.

  “Oh, bloom me sideways,” moans Odisseus, following that point.

  On the holovision, Odisseus sees convenience store aisles, a few murdered corpses and the four of them, blinking and spinning stupidly around. A new figure – some Zourim newsperson, overcome with hushed euphoria – is superimposed over the hologram's lower right corner.

  “You've seen it here on GAC first, galaxy. Nehel Morel is alive and currently in Arzenka system, not far from the Midworlds' northwestern–”

  “I thought you nixed all the bloody cameras!” hisses Flask, unsuccessfully attempting to shield his face from a camera he can't see.

  “I did!” Moira snaps back, Righty and Lefty leaping eagerly into her hands as she too spins in search of that camera.

  “Pretty clear from the footage we're seeing,” the Zourim continues, one of her prehensile toes pressed to an earpiece, “the woman to the Menace's right would be Moira Quicksilver, the–” The anchor makes a sudden gasp, the moment the hologram catches up with reality. “That confirms it! Those're her trademark firearms, a pair of AccCo 665 Lawmen–”

  Ducking behind the gunshot slushie machine, Flask peeks enough of his face into view to utter his question. “How much you think they heard?”

  “I mean, too much,” Odisseus answers, swiping a paw to grab Nemo by the collar. His saltbrother sees him coming much too soon and ducks out of the way, attempting to slap his paw away.

  “The fuck're you–”

  “We're leaving?” Odisseus points out, baring all his fangs to emphasize the point. “Or is that no fucking obvious?”

  “Chill, will you?” Nemo scoots a foot or two away, earning a little berth. “Lemme get my blooming shit a second, fuck,” he demands, stooping to retrieve his overflowing basket. As he does, he shoots a glance up towards the holovision and his face brightens. “Hey, who's that handsome mug?”

  “–only be Odisseus, the Menace's personal bodyguard. Now, according to some sources, he's an Ortok but, according to others, she's actually a Quar–”

  Odisseus does not bother to consider the holovision and what is undoubtedly his own face, broadcast for all the galaxy to see. Instead, he sinks his claws into the Captain's bathrobe and drags Nemo, gripping his grocery basket all the while, across the Junction and towards the exit.

  Flask is way ahead of them both, ducking into cover wherever he can, like he's escaping from a firefight. Moira lags the furthest behind, weapons in her hand, attempting to extrapolate the exact position of that one pesky security camera.

  “Leave it!” exhorts Odisseus, fully out of the camera's view and with his struggling saltbrother in tow. Moira ignores him and instead, she studies the counter – its register, the slumped Fivvite cashier, its spray of spilled lottoholos. Odisseus sees her stop suddenly, her body tensing, and extend one pistol at arm's length.

  “You cheeky bastard,” she mutters and fires a single shot. The bolt connects with the Fivvite's flopped-forward face, directly in the bony cashier's right eye socket. There's an explosion of both blood and, strangely, sparks that's perfectly timed with the sudden shorting of the holovision's picture.

  If anything, this only seems to electrify the Zourim all the more. “How e
xciting is this, galaxy? The Galactic Menace, Captain Nemo, alive after all these years and back on the run! Stay tuned to GAC for up to the minute–”

  Odisseus is thankful when Moira, hustling to meet him at the exit, spends a moment to crank a pistol backward and plant a bolt in the noisy holovision set.

  Moira Quicksilver has discovered, quite by accident, a most fascinating combination; three-fifths of a bottle of Gitterswitch Gin and a scalp-scorcher.

  She spends a second, simply fascinated by the action of turning the scorcher off and turning the scorcher back on again. The thin red laserline, so fine it's almost invisible, bathes her face with heat and light each time it's strung between the scorcher's two prongs. For an unspecified length of time, this enthralls Moira, wondering where exactly the little ribbon of laser goes when the scorcher's deactivated.

  She's not sure, exactly but she has a theory. It might be somewhere at the bottom of her booze bottle.

  The Cannonball Dogs howl so loud, they could unbuckle the plates from the medbay's walls. When she first started shaving, she was reasonably sober and had no intention of peeling any paint with the volume of her music. The drunker she's gotten, however, the louder and louder she keeps cranking it up. By now, it's blasting so loud they'll soon be receiving noise complaints from the planets the Lover's warping past.

  Moira wipes her mouth with the meat of her thumb and sets the Gitterswitch bottle on the basin's precarious edge. Stifling a burp, she summons all her mental fortitude and steadies her trembling hand.

  It's a calm and even stroke across the crown of her head, one that requires all her gunfighting prowess to perform, the scorcher's blade hovering a milimeter above the scalp. In its wake, the scorcher leaves behind only a vague suggestion of hair and the faint smell of ozone. Moira couldn't be happier to lose it all; all the extra weight, all the extra fuss of the lopsided shave the spice ranger's flamejet had given her.

  Also, she's burning her hair off with a fucking laser and that's pretty metal.