Galactic Menace

by Timothy J Meyer

  Second Interlude

  "Is piracy pointless?"

  "No, is the short answer. Fuck you, is the long answer."

  "Explain to me why it's not, then.”

  "It's not because it isn't. Piracy broke Takioro. Piracy founded Bad Space. Piracy is what drove the Imperium outta the Ring with their tails up their bloomholes. Sure, they make noises about 'unsustainable occupations' and 'taxation deficiencies' but the word they mean is 'piracy.' What's most ironic is that, end of the day, Imperium's nothing but pirates themselves."

  "Not sure I follow."

  "That's the classic MO, ain't it? Century ago, too much pressure comes down on 'em, they're stretched too thin across the Ring and what do they do? They abdicate, tuck tail, like I said, and scamper back within the Midworlds to their precious Inner Sector and you know what? Fine. Good fucking riddance. Few decades and a few wars pass, though, and Bad Space, with all our territory and resources, is suddenly all sexy again. Before long, it's strap on your assault rifles, boys, we're off to shoot the natives and steal their stuff."

  "You're referring to Baz now?"

  "Or Nos Mantri. Or Jhiron. Or, shit, Twin Telta, even. The list ain't short and it ain't likely to get any shorter anytime soon. Long as they've the biggest cock in the galaxy, long as nobody's the stones to challenge them, the Imperium'll rape and ravage every round planet in the Ring and what, we're supposed to wipe our chins and say 'thanks very much?' Fuck that and fuck your slutty mother too."

  "I'd no idea you're so political."

  "Guy in my position can't afford to be some hood anymore. I mean, you wouldn't be here, were that the fucking case."

  "And Valladia?"

  "Valladia's the tool the Imperium's decided to use today. They're tired of watching buhox, carbon petro, lumber, bloom knows what else, profitably change hands in the Ring, zottibles beyond the reach of their meddling. They've got warmongering to pay for, don't they? So, what do they do? They dangle a juicy contract over the heads of every legitimate cargo corp in Bad Space and watch the fuckers jump. Valladia wins out because of course it fucking does and now, Imperium's got hooks, taxes and flags down on ten of the richest independent ports in all the Outer Ring."

  "Would you describe all this, then, as delivering them justice?”

  "Fuck justice. Justice is for Brock Rocket and His Patriotic Twats. This is about delivering fucking punishment."

  "Was punishment always the goal? Where did you get started?"

  "Qel Qatar."

  "What's on Qel Qatar?"

  "Above Qel Qatar, actually and there's a Nanosecond Pizza. Where I saw the 'piracy is pointless' broadcast for the first time."

  "Tell me about that."

  "Ain't mucha story, really. Fresh offa jailbreak, saw the–"

  "You broke outta prison?"

  "Another story. Check the status of the HIN Surimiah, if you're curious later."

  "Will do."

  "Saw the broadcast, made me angry."

  "Angry enough to organize all this?"

  "Angrier. Didn't all come to me instantly, that'd be lying. What I knew at the time and, remember – this was back when you couldn't warp one system without hearing the fucking buzzwords on every blooming radio station, without reading them on every blooming holoadvert – was that I wanted to take the point of piracy and stab someone through the eyeball with it."

  "Heh."

  "What?"

  "Oh, no, nothing."

  "You'd be a fuck of a lot less snide if I threw you out that airlock."

  "You're welcome to try. No headline, then, though."

  "You don't think 'Nehel Morel Throws Unknown Journalist Into Fwelk's Low Orbit, Worshipped As God' would make headlines?"

  "'Unknown Journalist?' You wound me."

  "I'll defenestrate you, is what I'll do. Bloom, but I'm still thirsty."

  "Where's next? Qel Qatar inspired you, how soon would the full idea form?"

  "Soon. Not immediately, again – my first ideas involved going solo, for lack of anything smarter, but what little common fucking sense I had eventually won out. No, it was help I was gonna most need and, in my experience, help in this business don't come without a flat and juicy fee. So, Gallow."

  "The bank heist."

  "Showed up on your radar, did it?"

  "Showed up on everybody's radar. Flashing your colors like that didn't trip your common fucking sense?"

  "Said that shit was scarce in me, didn't I?"

  "How much you pocket from the bank heist? Six million?"

  "Five and none of that was pocketed, least not by me. An expense account's maybe the best way to explain that, in hindsight, something my crew probably would've appreciated more than what I ended up telling them."

  "Your crew. That interests me. They take the news well?"

  "They didn't take the news at all, matter of fact. Not until much, much later. Thing you gotta understand about my crew is that they're capable but shortsighted. They see danger, they see derring-do, scares 'em off. They want money, they want minimal risk, they want no complications."

  "Can't say I'd blame 'em."

  "I can. Pain does have that relationship with gain, you realize."

  "Crew didn't see things that way?"

  "Oh, moons, no. Crew practically skinned me for new fucking hats, soon as they learnt something was up. Can't say as they feel the same way now, of course, but this is what I'm saying about short-sightedness."

  "What about this Switch character?"

  "You know his fucking name, you cocktease. Two. Bit. Switch."

  "According to my sources, he's been a confidant of yours this entire time. Some even claim Two-Bit's the one pulling your strings."

  "Them's fighting words, what you're saying to me. You learn two things about me today, okay, it's these two – I don't take orders and killing those who give orders stiffens my boner. Two-Bit Switch is a textbook fixer. It's why I hired him. He solves problems for me, sure, he irons out wrinkles that arise but, believe you me, Two-Bit was just as reluctant as any of the rest of them, soon as he found out. Just needed to bring him into the fold sooner, is all."

  "That work out?"

  "You tell me. Are we not sitting here, sipping champagne in a private lovepod? Nah, tell you the truth, had I known the shitslide that I would cause, getting this thing off the ground, maybe I woulda handled things somewhat differently."

  "You don't say."

  "No, never mind. I'm fucking perfect."

  Chapter 7

  Moira Quicksilver is pretty far from an expert in the field of interstellar drug smuggling. Even she, however, understood that only a moron would attempt to transport contraband drugs across interplanetary borders under the guise of canned fish. If she, a common layperson, recognized this stereotype, certainly those four highly trained Inner Sector customs officers, standing watch over Worldshine's single choke point, would also recognize it.

  As one might imagine, she was having difficulty, then, following Flask's logic.

  It was, after all, his idea to send them, five known criminals wanted in connection to yesterday's very public bank heist, strolling toward said security checkpoint, their rented driftcart stacked high with cans upon cans of freeze-dried fish.

  They were all attired again in street clothes, the five pirates and their contact, and they spread themselves out in a loose circle around the laden driftcart. Moira elects to hang the furtherest back, determined to grant herself enough shooting room should Flask's “tried-and-true” method of moving cash offworld go south. Two-Bit's opposite Moira, Odisseus is directly ahead and Abraham, citing old age, is seated in the driver's seat.

  It's Nemo and Flask who spearhead the maneuver. The latter palms a small stack of sporefin sardine tins and extends pleasantries towards the first customs officer, an uncharitable-looking Lhovuss in full body armor.

  There's some code, Moira gleans, a correlation between what type of fish is outwardly displayed and what type of narcotic is inwardly c
ontained. Sporefin presumably translated as Spicion. A bathtub-quality sample of same was included inside all five of the tins that Flask passes openly to each of the customs officers, ensconced within a healthy padding of actual fish. These necessary props – both drugs and fish – were acquired thanks to Odisseus and Abraham sniffing around Cannery District the following evening.

  An actual expert in the field of interstellar drug smuggling, Flask hadn't seemed remotely concerned about the feasibility of smuggling 5.3 million credits offworld. Righty and Lefty loose in her holsters, Moira remains dubious until this, the eleventh hour.

  Watching the Lhovuss pocket the offered bribe and even chuck Flask companionably on the shoulder, Moira realizes how drastically she'd underestimated Worldshine's deep-seeded corruption. On Gallow, it seemed the least suspicious cover for incriminating contraband was simply less incriminating contraband.

  Nevertheless, Moira's careful to keep her face neutral as they slide past the security checkpoint and onto the waiting landing platform.

  The atrium they pass into could've been cut clean from Takioro's Second Ring and no one would've been the wiser. The corrugated thermosteel box – all grit, graffiti and semen stains – is peopled entirely by bums, beggars, buskers and muggers pretending to be bums, beggars or buskers. Moments after they pass customs, a series of rumbles under their feet signify the disengagement of the lift's docking clamps and its descent begins, dropping the entire chamber hundreds of feet into the moon's crust.

  The seven-minute tram ride back through the moon's core would be its own marvel. Powered entirely by godlike electromagnets, the five-car drifttram could evidently transverse the entire breadth of Criia's moon faster than Moira could say “electromagnetic hyperspeed drifttram.” How the local government had managed to safely drill a subway tunnel straight through Gallow's mantle, crust and core, not to mention design, construct and maintain the tram itself, she couldn't possibly imagine.

  Whatever their methods might have been, seven minutes would whisk The Unconstant Lover's crew, all their luggage and 5 million in untraceable currency from the squalid Worldshine Drifttram Terminal to its pristine cousin, the Dockside Drifttram Terminal.

  Flask, wearing his left arm in a sling as an affectation rather than out of any true medical need, would not be joining them.

  “Were I in your fooking position, like,” he opines to Nemo, when they were far past the earshot of the above customs officers, “I wouldn't even bother with the Ring.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his one working hand. “Straight Offchart, you know, and as few jumps as possible.”

  Nemo, however, pays him with the merest sliver of his attention. His eyes are instead riveted to a scrolling series of holoadverts bleeping and blurting against the lift's far wall.

  Too fidgety to notice or comment, Flask continues. “Cash might be untraceable, aye,” he mutters, “but they're just as like to get all lateral on you, look for any big cash expenditures galaxywide, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Nemo deigns to comment.

  “What world you got in mind?” Flask presses, raising his cigarette to his lips for the second time in thirty seconds. When no reply is immediately forthcoming, he jabs Nemo's shoulder. “Coz?”

  “Oh, uh,” Nemo is shaken from his fascination with the irreverent ThumbSmash advertisement, “probably, like you said, one of the Offchart ones. You know, Ald or Quar or, uh, a different Offchart one.”

  Moira creases her brow. While she couldn't claim the level of familiarity that saltbrotherhood seemed to bestow upon Odisseus, Moira easily qualified as a seasoned student of the many moods, morals and mannerisms of Nehel Morel. She could recognize, at thirty paces, the uncomprehending expression the Captain wore when he not only ignored someone, but when he was actively clueless about what they were talking about.

  Seeing as how Flask was attempting to talk exit strategy with him, to re-solidify plans of hideouts and mattresses they'd most likely made months ago, Nemo's abject ignorance could translate into only one thing.

  The Captain had absolutely no intention of lying low.

  Out of practice at reading between his cousin's lines, Flask takes no notice of this, preferring instead to shuffle his feet and gnash the end of his cigarette between anxious teeth. “Far as I'm concerned, there's nothin' for it, like,” he resigns. “I'd entertained thoughts of skipping world too, you know, least until things cool some.” Moira detects the merest trace of dangled plea coloring his voice, something wholly unappreciated by the scatterbrained Nemo. “Push comes to shove, though,” Flask admits, “I ain't willin' to leave Gallow for any money. That means, 'acourse–”

  Nemo earns himself a respite from Flask's prattling, not to mention a considerable berth from bystanders, by drawing his unprecedented firearm and suddenly shooting out the next holoadvert.

  Startled commuters scoot aside to allow the maniac his space. Each of the Captain's crewmen, Flask included, open a mouth to voice an objection. They all freeze the words unspoken at the sight of what the advert continues to blinkingly display, below the impressive shatter mark Nemo's laser bolt left behind.

  “Visit Beatific Baz!” the juddering hologram exclaims. In three glorious dimensions, it depicts an idyllic coastline fringed by familiar white flora and splashed by endless tides of a tropical sea. The holoadvert, Moira notes, did not depict the fields of exploding repellent, the bloodsucking ecosystem or any of the planet's aboriginal population, the either assimilated or dead Baziron.

  No objection is ultimately made as Nemo returns his smoldering pistol to its awaiting holster. Even Flask, mouth agape, doesn't bother resuming his carping the entire lift ride down.

  Odisseus ladles the tin's entire contents into his mouth with scooping fangs and eager tongue. He lingers a moment, savoring the saline explosion on his taste buds and picking out the plastosealant package inside. After swallowing the mouthful of sporefin, Odisseus spews out what's left, landing on the tabletop with a furiously wet thud – a thick fold of creased bills, wrapped tightly in sealant and sodden with Ortoki saliva.

  Moira ceases thumbing through her own fold of bills to give Odisseus a gruesome grimace. “Must you?”

  “You're just jealous,” Odisseus replies joyfully. His claws already make impatient work of the next tin on his mountainous stack.

  “Jealous,” Two-Bit repeats bitterly, scooping bundled cash from its fishy prison across the table. “Yeah. Nailed it.”

  The Ortoki mechanic made no bones about his disapproval of Flask's ill-fated attempt at the 5 million in hard cash they were currently counting. Indeed, his opinion had been loudly stated, loudly ignored and remained loudly unchanged, even with each of them returned safely to the Lover's mess.

  Of Flask's markedly more successful attempt to smuggle said 5 million past Gallwegian customs, on the other hand, Odisseus was the crew's staunchest supporter. He was inclined to blame this on the enormous pile of unclaimed fish at the attempt's end.

  None of the weary crew members, Nemo included, expressed any interest in the tins upon tins upon tins of sporefin, jiihu and zegofish, which only left more for the hungry Ortok.

  Each of the Lover's four lieutenants labor at the seemingly insurmountable task of counting, re-counting and distributing their considerable prize into its individual shares. Three hundred thousand is lost to Flask's fee, one point six million is lost to the ship's fund and the remainder is then divided into five equal portions.

  The crew's oldfangled galley table of weathered Ujad mahogany is stacked, stocked and surrounded by the cheerful cans of freeze-dried fish. Each one contains both several hundred credits and a mouthwatering morsel for Odisseus.

  While he'd gleefully volunteered to spearhead the seafood portion of the chore, both Abraham and Moira'd quickly voted to handle the actual currency. This left Two-Bit, his hands safeguarded in a pair of klutzy vacuum mitts, as Odisseus' unwilling fish-unwrapping accomplice.

  The Captain was, quite mysteriously, nowhere to be found when manu
al labor was suddenly called for. Most likely puttering around in the helm was Odisseus' best guess.

  “Ald'd be me bet,” Abraham opines suddenly, somehow able to lick his thumb to better count cash and maintain his calabash pipe firmly between his wide lips. “Quiet, outta the way, ain't got them nasty stinksnakes what Ond's got.”

  “Ald's,” Two-Bit interjects, “something of a no-go for me, actually.”

  Odisseus pauses before dumping a tin's contents, fish and currency both, into his mouth. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Two-Bit nods. “Bad juice with one particular liz joint.”

  “Second choice then'd be Gren,” Abraham downshifts smoothly, flicking his way through his latest stack. “Little more populated,” he allows, “little more accessible, but–”

  Two-Bit pulls an over-exaggerated cringe. “Ex-tomato of mine's a mayor or something out there, I hink.”

  The Grimalti, stymied, stammers out an “Erm–”

  “Yon,” Moira tries as a sudden suggestion to Two-Bit from across the table.

  “Sweets on me maggie,” Two-Bit reports, tapping his left temple with the thick fingered mitt.

  “Bril,” Odisseus offers next, Moira's translation of which causes Two-Bit to ponder absently a moment.

  “Bril's–” he begins, stopping himself almost immediately. “No, hold up.” He shakes his head vigorously after a moment's more consideration. “Nag, Bril's out. Owe somebody serious jangle there.”

  “How'd ye get to be persona-non-grate on e'ery damn Offchart world comes to mind?” a mystified Abraham puts to Two-Bit.

  His answer is accompanied by the most innocent of shrugs. “I had a bad month.”

  Moira slaps her handful of cash down atop one of the mounting six piles scattered across the table. “There's Tarson to rendezvous with first.”

  Odisseus grunts. “I'd forgotten about Tarson.”