Galactic Menace

by Timothy J Meyer

  “ABSCENCE OF THE SPECIFIC SHELTER IN REASON.”

  Nemo makes an exaggerated frown and a subtle shake of the head.

  “You were talking about a place,” Moira attempts to goad. “That last bar on the brink.”

  A cryptic expression, one Odisseus can't quite recognize, crosses Nemo's indolent features for a split second. “No,” he decides, “that's for when the time comes.”

  Before Odisseus can question his meaning, Two-Bit yanks the conversation in a different direction entirely. “You ain't having a change of berry as regards goin' to lavender in the first place, is you?”

  Nemo waves the remote about as a means to explicate. “Ostensibly, the plan, the original plan, was to leave Xo in the dust with the whole, uh, Surimiah...business.”

  “The Surimiah Slip,” Two-Bit corrects in his capacity as official caper namer.

  “And then,” Nemo swipes the remote right to indicate the metaphorical blankness before them, “fuck off until such time as the galaxy is ready for us again.”

  “And you've gone sour on that?” Odisseus assumes, the droidvox fitfully whirring in its fervent attempts to translate.

  Nemo's laxness remains persistent, however. “Nah. I don't know.”

  “AND DISPATCH BY ACID ON YOU,” the droidvox finally catches up.

  For the third time since they'd all sat down to enjoy their pizza pie, Two-Bit Switch finds himself the center of everyone's confounded ire.

  “I'm having some stook with the infomatrix,” he offers meekly by way of explanation.

  “Well, no,” Odisseus confutes, “the trouble's in your intake, not your output. You gotta–” He stops himself, mid-reach for the Attaché, and has a minor revelation. “Why am I helping you?” As the droidvox sibilates in frustration at all the new words to translate, Odisseus returns huffily to his beloved anchovies. “You're doing fine.”

  “WILL GUSH OUT IN NO WAY ANXIETY IN YOUR PRODUCT NOT YOUR EXIT. YOU OBTAINED. WHERE AM I THAT AID. YOU MAKE EXCELLE–”

  Mercifully, Two-Bit Switch disconnects the droidvox from its power source to investigate its underside and it falls blissfully quiet.

  Having now abandoned a single holovision channel in favor of racing, at breakneck speed, through all of them, Nemo murmurs “Thank the moons” at the untimely death of the droidvox.

  “I'm only trying to–” Two-Bit objects most strenuously.

  Moira taps Nemo's bicep with her wrist, her gaze also fixed on the holovision. “Go back.”

  Odisseus twists about in his chair with enough time to catch Nemo click two channels in reverse and come to rest upon the frequency Moira must've indicated. The dinky, discount holovision, dangling off the ceiling by a set of precarious metal struts, projects outward what appears to be newsplash coverage. The shiny modernized logo spiking each of the hologram's four corners brashly attributes the footage to the galaxy's least trusted name in news; GAC – Galactic Airwaves Corporate.

  Tickers, sidebars and real-time responses from the feeds corrupt and clutter the edges of the hologram but, through the tangle of advertisements and analytics, Odisseus discerns what looks like a press conference. A podium is erected on the shapely promenading steps of some sheer corporate structure and emblazoned with the chic emblem of the Valladian Shipping Line. A gaggle of reporters with broadcasting equipment huddle around excitedly.

  Definitely Inner Sector, Odisseus presumes, to judge by the garb of both the press and the party holding the conference. His supposition is confirmed by the scrawling ticker which reads “INTRAGALAXY COMMERCE: CARGO MEGACORP CAPTURES IMPERIUM CONTRACT.”

  Odisseus grunts in recognition. It was impossible to transit anywhere in Bad Space these past five months without hearing rumbling of this news. For the past four decades, the Endless Imperium swore off the Outer Ring and all its resources, calling the majority of the galaxy a useless, unsustainable frontier, recalcitrant to colonization. Both sides of the fence – the entitled, sanctimonious Inner Sectors and the abandoned, anarchic Bad Space – were content with this arrangement.

  Now, rumor was, the Imperium was toying with reversing their previous policy.

  Certainly, Baz, Nos Mantri and Pequod stood as ironshod examples of the Imperium's willingness to intervene, always on behalf of resources, whenever they saw fit. Evidently, Bad Space was becoming too tempting a target, its riches too plump for the taking, to be left to its own, dissolute devices. For the first time in forty years, the Endless Imperium were making motions about an official return to rulership over the lawless regions of the galaxy.

  Some megacorp, one of the massive shipping companies that ferried goods from Outer Ring to Inner Sectors, would be responsible for helping them make that transition. Sponsorship was supposedly the game, but it was no secret that soon, more than simply goods would be flowing through that company's channels. Colonists, warships, civilization; they were all en route to Bad Space, should this contract be successfully signed.

  By the looks of things, Valladian Shipping, its logo glimmering proudly in IntraGalaxy Commerce's artificial sunlight, looked about to become the happiest megacorp in the galaxy.

  The spokesman, a Karracki mouthpiece attired in an officious uniform, appears to be within the closing statements of whatever announcement he'd assembled all the news coverage for. His pair of humanoid retainers, the male an Imperium official of some capacity and the female evidently some Trijan military officer, stand stone-faced behind him as he dispenses with pleasantries befitting some grand unveiling.

  “–extends our sincerest condolences to Zibbian Cargo-Traffic, Mercury Mercantile and the Interstellar Teamsters Union. Valladian Shipping ensures that, as we approach the new century, the official interests of the Endless Imperium will inhabit our highest priorities and attentions.” His leonine features wax rhetorical. “Together, with this bold new union, Valladian Shipping will be the first to aid the righteous old order of our glorious Imperium.”

  On cue, a clamoring chorus of questions, accompanied by the shooting of hands into the air, follows directly on the heels of the spokesman's last statement. “Secretary Jasso! Secretary Jasso!” The Valladian rep instinctively extends a nod toward a humanoid newshound to his left.

  “Ulic Traffo. Anglia Daily.” He hoists high one end of his palm holocorder toward the podium and speaks his question into the other. “How far shall the Shipping Line extend under these new provisions?”

  “The Imperium,” Jasso begins, “has expressed interest in distributing its wares to all corners of the Outer Ring but, for the time being, we're limiting our reach as far as Kiesha and the Anoit Cluster. At least for a provisional period.” He seems to peruse the thicket of upraised recording equipment for a moment. “Next question.”

  The reprise of shouted questions is hastily interrupted when the Karracki press secretary selects the next holocorder, grasped in a fleshy pink hand.

  “Wezz. Space Times.”

  As though in realization of a poisonous agwaifapede in their midst, the huddle of reporters literally draw back away from the speaker. An incompatible-looking Helker, with more piercings than clothing, is unveiled amongst them.

  While the reporter himself was unrecognizable to Odisseus, the moronically-named Space Times held a fearsome reputation in the Ring as the only interstellar feedzine clueless enough to run investigative journalism inside actual Bad Space itself. The Times ran puff pieces about pirates, case studies on kingpins and exposés about the nitty-gritty of the criminal life.

  Across Outer Ring and Inner Sector, the feedzine was universally regarded as a trashy tabloid run by a pack of amoral, degenerate muckrakers. Perhaps, however, because they were one of the only galaxywide periodicals that dared attempt to even circulate across the black markets of Bad Space, everyone Odisseus knew harbored a certain degree of misplaced pride for the interfering little bastards. Even the major syndicates – Xo, the Scar, the late Boss Ott – historically gave them a wide berth, figuring, as the rest of the Ring did, that any p
ress was good press.

  Jasso's jaw tightens.

  “Has the issue of, you know, piracy not been discussed?” The Helker eyesore challenges. “How does Valladia intend to combat Bad Space's rampant criminality?”

  Adjusting his position, Press Secretary Pazer Jasso of Valladian Shipping clears his throat.

  “If I may speak frankly, Wezz,” he drops the name like a turd, “in light of this new alliance, the rampant criminality of your 'Bad Space' will soon be a thing of the past.” He makes several broad, sweeping gestures. “Our expansive network is bolstered by funding and sponsorship from the galaxy's greatest military power. Each of our ten ports is exhaustively patrolled by our own dedicated privateer corps, led by Commodore Charybdis and her personal squadron.” The Trijan woman to Jasso's left bows her head slightly. “The Valladian Shipping Line, therefore, has been virtually immune to individual attacks from brigands for nearly a century. With the endorsement of the Endless Imperium, that immunity shall only strengthen.”

  He puffs himself still higher, preparing to deliver the cherished sound-bite. “As of today, piracy is officially pointless.”

  Back at Nanosecond Pizza, everyone at the table tries their damnedest not to look at their Captain.

  “Valladian Shipping,” Jasso continues, making eye contact with the Helker, “urges your brother professionals of the galaxy into another line of work, Wezz.” The reporters tittle. Jasso inflates himself a little further and selects a hand across the crowd. “Next question.”

  GAC doesn't disappoint; reaction coverage fills the tiny HV screen. All six of the Helker's parallel ears flatten more horizontal than the horizon and an expression of bemused irritation is chiseled on his feline features.

  His Attaché ignored, Two-Bit is the first to assuage the damage. “Buhoxshit.”

  Moira is the first to meet him. “Is that what you think?”

  “It is. This is still Bad fucking Space, isn't it? Back there,” he points absently toward the screen behind him, “in the Inner, Valladia can preen and pose all they like but out here, in the Ring, no goodie contract or no chump change privy is gonna make no difference.”

  “Chump change?” Moira disparages. “You never heard of Charybdis?”

  “Ain't ringin' no bells.”

  Moira counts on fingers. “Late of the Radiant Armada. Captain of The Dishonorable Discharge. Meanest cunt swinging a whip-saber this side of the Breach.” She aims her unused pointer finger directly at his chest. “Trust me – Trijans are not to be fucked with in matters of heredity or of navy.”

  “She's one ship,” Two-Bit blusters.

  “Three ships, actually, at the head of a whole privateer fleet and name me one pirate in the game,” she makes an allowing gesture, “excluding us, with a harder rep.”

  Two-Bit leans back and crosses his arms, the universal gesture for too cool to care. “Gundeck's been climbing the Consortium's charts, what I ord.” He undercuts this aspect by leaning forward suddenly, to hammer his point home. “Word 'round the campfire is, with that Rithese terrorist bloke iced, Consortium's been bleeming for the naming of the next Menace.”

  Moira leans backwards herself, smearing grease off her lips with a crumpled napkin. “Never happen,” she decries calmly. “No pirate, Gertie or Charybdis or us, is ever gonna make the Menace. We don't pose a galactic threat.” She tosses the napkin back to the table. “Not on our own.”

  Two-Bit only scoffs and Moira's judgment call falls on three sets of individually deaf ears. Two-Bit disagrees most immediately and he's the most vociferous about it. Odisseus stays neutral, chomping anchovies and cheese and keeping a weather eye on his saltbrother.

  Nemo hasn't been listening.

  His eyeline never strays from the holovision set, which now flaunts as holy writ Jasso's quote “PIRACY IS POINTLESS” across tickers and tabs. Nemo is motionless, save for the subtlest scuffing of his finger against the remote's volume button. His face wears an expression somewhere between the limitless extremes of smile and scowl. His posture suggests outward laxity and inward tension, his legs simultaneously sprawled and braced, as though searching an unfamiliar foe for a weakness, a chink in the armor.

  For the first time in their twenty-two year association, Odisseus finds himself unable to read the specific mood or disposition in his saltbrother. Some monumental change stirs within him, of this the Ortok has no doubt, but its stew of contradictions renders it quite indecipherable. Moira and Two-Bit are plumb oblivious to the press conference's apparent effect on their Captain and Odisseus is left pondering to himself if perhaps prison had indeed shaken something loose in his saltbrother's mind.

  For his own part, Nemo simply turns up the volume.

  First Interlude

  "Is there a minibar and where?"

  "Yes and there."

  "Minibar, minibar, minibar. I am a minibarist."

  "Help yourself. Yeah."

  "All I could think about on the way over. The question is, do they have the little, yes, yes, they have the little chewy bastards. The chewy bastards are my favorite."

  "Hey, hooray."

  "You don't know what these fuckers actually are, do you? The chewy bastards? I can't, before you ask, read the label. Don't speak Chookese or the fuck knows what."

  "I have not had one, matter of fact."

  "Wanna?"

  "This bastard is chewy."

  "Toldja. That's how they should be marketed, really. Chewy Bastards. Not this squiggly shit."

  "'Chewy Bastards: Chew on this.'"

  "Hey, there you go. What're you, a writer?"

  "Somebody thought so."

  "Inventory, then. Chewy Bastards, check. Fuck-off thing of spicy nuts, check. Some kinda pretentious-ass chocolate, check."

  "You understand this's gonna take, what, an hour? Maximum?"

  "The truest test, of course, of any minibar, is the alcohol. You're fucking me in the armpit."

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "Literally, the only thing alcoholic in here is champagne. Literally."

  "Literally?"

  "Come look, then, you snide motherfucker."

  "You're a primary source. I'm compelled to believe you."

  "Moons almighty, though, there is a powerful supply of identical fucking bottles of champagne to be had in this minibar. Could I tempt you?"

  "Why not. To Jotor with ethics in journalism."

  "Speaking of."

  "That..."

  "Is money. Yeah."

  "That is money. That is so much money."

  "All my pocket could carry, I'm afraid. You want your drink, you're gonna need to use your legs."

  "There is such a large pile of money on the floor."

  "You're allowed to pick it up. It's for you."

  "In what way isn't that a bribe?"

  "In no way. That is a bribe."

  "Then I guess the floor is where it lives now. What I write's gonna be what I write."

  "And ethics in journalism?"

  "Champagne is one thing. Hush money is another thing."

  “Hush money. Listen to you.”

  "I'm very flattered, but I think I'm gonna for sure decline.”

  "I did notice you're unarmed, is my only thing.”

  "Ah. Lemme explain something, then, if this's the direction in which we're gonna head. The most common misconception people have when they take a seat opposite me is that I'm going to slander them. It's understandable, maybe, I did write for Space Times of all places but, believe you me, your pile of money is not the first I've seen. It's the most abrupt and possibly also just, the most, but it certainly isn't the first."

  "Arrive at the point."

  "You're going to slander yourself. Is the point I'm arriving at. As in, if anyone's going to slander you, it'll be you. I write what you say. Precious little else. I have questions, prepared, with the intent to direct the conversation somewhat but, chances are, if you're dissatisfied with what I write, you're actually dissatisfied with what you said."r />
  "You write whatever I say."

  "Within reason."

  "You're all a bunch of fartmouthed cunts I'd rather kill than shake hands with."

  "That sorta thing, yeah."

  "Quuilar Noxix was overrated. Moira sleeps with a night light."

  "Does she?"

  "Hell, Ikoril wasn't me."

  "Hold up a minute. It wasn't you? Ikoril Federate Station?"

  "Ikoril Federate Station was them. Not us."

  "What you just said? That type of thing is precisely the type of thing that I would write."

  "Would you? I don't see no pencil or pad.”

  "Where's your peg leg and eyepatch? You see that?"

  "That? What's that?"

  "That. There. In the corner. Against the window."

  "Oh, ho, ho. That's jig."

  "Records everything we say from wherever we are in the room."

  "How many are there?"

  "Half a dozen. Scattered throughout."

  "Bloom me out. You cased the joint."

  "Wanted to give total freedom of movement without missing a word. Come prepared, my editor would say."

  "They've been running this entire time?"

  "For approximately four minutes, looks like."

  "What an auspicious start."

  "Most of this probably won't make the cut, to be fair. Except for the fartmouth, Moira, Ikoril stuff. That'll definitely all go in."

  "Well, now that you've got me good and liquored me up, where would you wanna start?”

  "I'm thinking a fact check. I'm thinking I run some data by you, data I've personally collated about you, and you stop me when I say something inaccurate. Sound reasonable?"

  "Reasonable enough. Shoot."

  “No confirmed date of birth, no confirmed record of birth, no indication of an Imperial citizenship. Digitwork itself is bloomedly scarce, across the board. As I'm sure you're aware. What I could exhume were arrest records. First one, logged approximately sixteen years ago, has a genetically nine-year-old Morel, Nehel, along with two accomplices apprehended for attempted burglary of, what, a nudie magazine? Nine plus sixteen equals twenty-five, which seems consistent with your appearance. Young, but not the youngest ever. Obwala's got you by a good decade and change.”