Galactic Menace

by Timothy J Meyer

  Nemo's search is somehow unsuccessful. He moves with familiar ease about the room, bypassing many stained, wrinkled and yet perfectly acceptable pairs of pants he could don with only a moment's effort. After he stoops once to search within a solitary boot, Two-Bit averts his eyes too late from a fleeting glance of the Captain's bare buttocks.

  “I don't suppose there's any squeak of you doin' me a kindie and jabb, pulling on a pair of trows, is there?”

  “Eureka!” Nemo exclaims. Peeking between spread fingers, Two-Bit discovers the Captain clasping the familiar brown rectangle of an Iniquity deck in pinched fingers.

  “Oh, mate, if you needed a stack–” Two-Bit admits, his hand reaching unconsciously towards the back pocket of his denim, where he, ever the compulsive gambler, habitually kept a spare deck.

  “Have a seat,” Nemo commands instead, plopping himself onto the bed and gesturing towards a laundry-draped mound that could possibly reveal a chair of some kind, should it choose to shed several layers of skin.

  Two-Bit considers Nemo's kind offer. “Think I'll stand, mate.”

  At this, Nemo only shrugs, his attention focused on dragging an HV tray across the uneven floor to provide a relatively flat surface on which to place his cards. “First things first,” Nemo begins peremptorily, spreading out, as he speaks, the makings of a one-player Iniquity game. “Gimme your word you won't say squat to the others. I'm trusting you to go along with this, but if they catch wise, I'll have to endure every flavor of 'are you out of your mind' and 'what were you thinking' imaginable.” He raises both eyebrows as he makes his ultimatum. “Time being, lips sealed. Savvy?”

  “Savvy,” Two-Bit agrees guardedly, excitement mounting despite himself.

  “Second things second,” Nemo continues, “I'm bringing you in because, at this point, I need your help. I've gone as far ahead on this frankly mad venture as I can without the resources and contacts you provide. My telling you, then, has gotta go hand-in-hand with you agreeing to come aboard permanently.” Once again, he pauses in his dealing to fix Two-Bit with those steely gray eyes. “Once I tell you, you're in, better or worse. Savvy?”

  Two-Bit nearly voices one of the hundred objections that well in this throat, but once again, burning curiosity, the potential doom of them all, overtakes him.

  He consents with a grunting “Savvy.”

  Nemo gives Two-Bit a smile, the sort of smile that harbingers further mischief to come; not only for themselves but, in this case, for the galaxy at large. “Excellent. Here's what I'm thinking.”

  Chapter 8

  Two-Bit Switch was raised and reared by trouble and truancy on the truculent streets of Takioro Defederate Station. As all good station waifs should, he retains a healthy miscreant's fear for the authority represented by Velocity, Takioro's beleaguered Depot-Commissioner.

  Since swearing allegiance to the Captain's colors, however, unhappy circumstances had conspired to plant him before the Depot-Commissioner's unimpressed hooves not once, not twice, but on five separate and suitably awkward occasions. Thusly, it was to Two-Bit's imminent relief that, at least on this visit, they brought nothing but a scintillating business offer into Velocity's court, rather than another messy gunfight or pack of bounty hunters.

  That said, Two-Bit was imminently more relieved to finally, finally understand what in all the moons of Jotor the Captain was actually planning.

  “And who exactly,” the Vollocki queenpin poses, the muscles of her bare back simultaneously rearranged by thirty or forty deft fingers, “is gonna cover those damages?”

  “All the extra business is gonna cover those damages, way we figure it,” Nemo's quick to counter. He reclines luxuriantly on the mountain of ratty, red throw pillows massed in the far corner, his pointer finger picking distractedly at the scabby surface of the nearby wall. “Vel, you gotta understand the sheer numbers we're talking about. If everybody brings everybody?” Something unsatisfactory sticking beneath his fingernail causes him to flick his finger spasmodically towards the center of the room. “Yarba New Year's gonna look like your sixth birthday party.”

  “I remember my sixth birthday party, actually,” Velocity recalls with a sudden wistfulness. “My father choked out the clown.”

  “Fairly memorable,” Nemo appreciates.

  The parlor the four of them occupied was almost unbearably hot. Standing in the curtained doorway, Two-Bit benefits the most from any breezes that may choose to wander in from the station street and he still sweats like a Kythene rainforest. He cannot even imagine how Nemo's survived this long, in duster, boots and breeches.

  Velocity and her Dho companion, on the other hand, both benefit from the distinct advantage of their unabashed nakedness.

  Happy Endings, a Third Ring “massage parlor,” made no pretensions of anything but abject brothelry. Each member of its workforce is equally adept at both the delicate art of massage and the somewhat less delicate art of prostitution. The fact Velocity'd scheduled their meeting to coincide with her weekly appointment at the place was either a display of trust – somewhat unlikely – or ambivalence – much more likely – toward Captain Nemo, renowned troublemaker.

  Of course, Happy Endings' lobby was positively lousy with the Depot-Commissioner's hired muscle. At the merest whiff of something amiss, they'd have eight unfriendly meathooks to suddenly contend with; not to suggest that their intentions today were anything but honorable.

  Cutting out a share for Velocity – a comparatively small and back-end share perhaps – but a share nonetheless, was both Two-Bit's suggestion and just generally good politics. Hopefully, the galaxy would interpret the gesture as giving back to the criminal community.

  Considering the amount of heat liable to descend upon Bad Space should they pull this whole madness off, putting the right proceeds in the right pockets amongst the Outer Ring's high and mighty could hopefully save their necks further down the road. This point, despite Nemo's protestations, Two-Bit was rather insistent on, considering their previous history with outraged crime lords.

  Upon hearing the full extent of Nemo's mystery plan, Two-Bit had found himself torn between a small handful of seemingly contradictory emotions. He was bamboozled by its sheer scope. He was convinced of the Captain's complete and indisputable insanity.

  Mostly saliently, Two-Bit was overcome with the sudden and unquenchable desire to actually see the impossible thing accomplished.

  How precisely to best achieve this last goal, he was less certain. He had ideas, undoubtedly – when hadn't he ideas – but the only caper he'd ever planned that could even rival this in ambition remained a nebulous collection of blueprints and sketches on his Attaché.

  What Two-Bit was certain of – partially for this reason, partially out of sheer spite – was his ardent desire to succeed in this, to quash any lingering doubt. He, not Flask, was the ideal mastermind for this most grandiose of Nemo's bad ideas, and therefore, by extension, whatever other bad ideas the Captain might conceive of.

  Their private conference over the Iniquity deck a great boost to his downcast spirits, Two-Bit had since hell-bent himself on proving to be the perfect accessory after the fact, exactly the tool Nemo needed to achieve his victory.

  It was no accident that the first step of his evolving strategy brought them conveniently to the Defederate Station. His stomping ground of old was practically bursting to the brim with useful contacts, valuable resources and streams of information only Two-Bit knew how to tap. Like many other fortunate souls scattered across the Outer Ring, the station's Depot-Commissioner had been chosen to play a part, however small, in Nemo's unfolding masterpiece. To this end, Two-Bit would brave a thousand sweltering massage parlors and a million nude Vollocki battleaxes, should the caper require.

  The Dho masseuse, naked as the day she was hatched, pillars herself over the table with only two of ten limbs, the rest concentrated on bunching and squeezing, pressing and kneading every available inch of Velocity's exposed back. In response, the Depot-Com
missioner's eyes remain firmly closed, as they have the meeting's entire duration, in an expression of supreme relaxation.

  “This mess your idea?” she presumably extends towards Two-Bit, the simple utterance quite possibly the most kindness she'd ever afforded him.

  Two-Bit points needlessly. “This flaster's all him. I'm very much second nanner on this.”

  “What's the verdict, Vel?” Nemo affects near-perfect boredom. “People to see.”

  The Vollocki savors the following silence nearly as much as she savors all the Dho's eightfold efforts. “If you survive,” is her first stipulation, but far from her last. “If anybody else agrees to this idiocy. If no bloomin' pressure lands on me from no bloomin' anywhere. If any of you yahoos even make it this far and if you yahoos don't destroy my whole fuckin' station in the doing.” She cracks an eye open, revealing them to be, as ever, brutally blue. “If I don't change my mind.”

  “Sublime.” Nemo clambers gracelessly to his feet. “Mum's the word, now.”

  She snorts with genuine amusement. “Who'd believe me?”

  “This joint any good?” Two-Bit ventures to Velocity, with a subtle gesture of the chin meant to indicate the entire parlor.

  The Vollocki inclines the stubs of her shorn horns towards the hovering Dho. “I wouldn't fuck her with yours, if that's what you're askin'.” If offended by the Depot-Commissioner's cavalier comment, the masseuse makes no outward sign.

  His person gathered to depart, Nemo thrusts a knowing finger toward the decumbent Velocity. “Watch the skies.”

  They thread through tight passages, pirates with purpose. Together, they breeze through a crowded lobby, past overeager madames, bored hookers and a full compliment of Velocity's goonage, complete with nicotine halos and holographic tees. Twenty seconds clears Happy Endings entirely and deposits them both back onto the Third Ring's bustling boulevard.

  Two-Bit's pleased to note that bustle is significantly less than normal levels. They'd intentionally timed their streak of errands to coincide with one of the Station's agreed-upon meal hours. Ninety percent of the Third Ring's vendors, shop keeps and peddlers currently forage for food one Ring above, reducing the foot traffic from its usual raging rapids to a babbling brook.

  All the better, Two-Bit reasoned, to conduct their clandestine affairs in.

  Barriers – some juddering pink deflection doors, some old-fashioned steel grates, most a combination of both – shelter storefronts as best they can from the inevitability of undeterable looters. Peddlers, desperate or obstinate, continue to bark their wares to those few pedestrians who do remain. Gutter-grown flowers cost ten credits, kitschy “I Heart Takioro” tourist trinkets cost fifteen, bags of buttery popcorn sold by an enterprising Mruka vendor are a steal at seven.

  Station waifs, made bold by the Ring's relative depopulation, scamper and sport about the street in small clusters. Two-Bit keeps a knowing eye on the gamboling little ruffians.

  “Think she'd squawk?” Two-Bit ponders aloud, once they'd put a comfortable distance between themselves and Velocity's legendary earshot.

  “Probably,” Nemo predicts offhandedly. “Question is, who'd she squawk at?” He flicks each finger on his left hand as he cites each possibility. “She's no ties to Xo, the Scar's slumming the pen on Taardia and an old school buccaneer like her'd just as soon drink ditrogen than talk nice to the Imperium.” He shrugs helplessly. “Sad to say, but I think our dear Vel's becomes somewhat unfashionable.”

  “Plus” adds Two-Bit thoughtfully, “if her jabbing her hatch off results in us not seeing this thing through, she stands to miss out on a mountain of docking fees and ten-percents.”

  “That too,” Nemo concurs, but his creased eyebrows foreshadow some second point. “Thought,” he declares. “We haven't given Xo much consideration in all this. Should we?”

  “Depends on how cracklin' we go,” Two-Bit reasons calmly. “Xo's slow, is the thing you can't blank on; they scheme and they tug strings and they blooming machinate more'n they do much else. Long as we touch down on Talos II in, what, two month's time?” Nemo gives a confirming nod. “Long as we do that,” Two-Bit continues, “Xo's still gonna be clawing their maggies while we're in full swing.”

  “Plus,” Nemo also adds, “with their well-established fear of the limelight, they're gonna think thrice before wading into an intergalactic incident like this's gonna be.”

  “That too,” Two-Bit allows with a toothy grin. “Easy to blank on how stupid this flash you've come up with actually is, Cap'n.”

  Nemo frowns sagely. “It's a common problem.”

  The shoot platform, passing on their lefthand side and congested with commuters heading up to the Second Ring, seems to capture the Captain's attention. He hustles ahead a few steps, so that he might walk backwards and pitch full frontal to Two-Bit. “Hey, so, since we're pretty much done here, nobody would mind if I swing by the Afterburn and grab a–”

  “Sifer,” Two-Bit reminds.

  “Sifer. Yes. Bloom.”

  “And Tarson, depending.”

  “Who?”

  Two-Bit opens his mouth to offer explanation, but Nemo's scowl only deepens and he extends a point past Two-Bit's waist, seemingly to something or someone approaching behind. “Who's your buddy?” he questions quietly, his finger indicating the shape of a tiny, familiar humanoid.

  His skin is a vibrant viridian. His bare feet and shabby attire mark him a station waif unquestionably. Malnutrition caps his prepubescent height at just shy of four feet. The sight of him scurrying up in their wake curls the corner of Two-Bit's mouth in a smirk of recognition.

  He's early, even.

  “Gimme a mite, wouldja, Cap'n?” Two-Bit requests of Nemo, shifting his attention to fully receive the incoming pipsqueak.

  “Sure thing,” grants Nemo distractedly, somehow already preoccupied by shifting through the wares of the nearest kitsch kiosk within reach.

  The scamp closes the gap a moment later and instantly doubles over, propping both elbows on his bony knees to recapture what remains of his breath. Two-Bit fights the spreading smirk. “Moons, you scrogger, don't purple yourself.”

  Threesies glances up with brown eyes blazing. “Dewey a kindie,” he pants, “and chomp a plonk.”

  Hearing even such a small snatch of his home dialect is enough, that jumbled and inbred argot of Jabber spoken exclusively by Takioro's specific breed of guttersnipes. Two-Bit's transported immediately back to his own youth, an existence of table scraps, tagalongs and territorial disputes. He adjusts his own cadence instinctively and addresses Threesies in his mother tongue. “Howdee zero me?”

  “Is no gashouse,” Threesies states, matter-of-factly. “Ezzie jabber she vizzee, swaggin' out a siddown with Deep-Com at R5I and comee I hoofin',” he explains, dropping Happy Endings' Station Identification Numeral. The archaic system, used for classifying the station's businesses, was exclusively the tool of Velocity and her street urchin population. “On the neath wazee I. Is the gritty gashouse.” Two-Bit applauds the boy's initiative with a moment's calm golf-clapping. Threesies sticks out his tongue.

  “What rumpus this is, Threes?” Two-Bit cuts to the chase. “Bringee what I jabber you?”

  “'course I bringee,” Threesies spits huffily. “Is me, blankee you?”

  Two-Bit beckons the little rapscallion with a gesture. “Fesswe, then, or scoree I don't.”

  Threesies inches conspiratorially forward and Two-Bit lowers himself into a crouch, to better receive the waif's whispered information. “Jabber 'round the trash fire is,” Threesies relates, “this Greatgullet mate of yours be, howzit, 'strapping on the Belt'?”

  “Veraspo,” Two-Bit mutters, a hint of incredulity coloring his voice. “Factee you?”

  “Factee I,” Threesies, so easily offended, confirms hurriedly. “All the moons and that.” He tosses both arms wide, in a familiar gesture of assurance. “Jockee you out Veraspo-way, zero you he.” One outstretched hand is immediately diverted from its previous
gesture and presented, palm up, before Two-Bit. “Thirteen rhino scoree I.”

  “Ten.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Eleven.”

  Two-Bit strokes his stubbled jawline contemplatively. The term “strapping on the Belt” references the Veraspo asteroid Belt specifically. A spattering of asteroids located so conveniently on the border between decent society and unchecked criminality, plundering the fat merchant barges that routinely pass through the region eventually became somewhat amateurish amongst the interstellar space pirate community. The notion of a celebrated buccaneer of Greatgullet's reputation haunting those rocks was practically unthinkable and wouldn't, to the casual observer, appear to be especially reliable information.

  Two-Bit Switch withdraws his sheaf of folding money from his jacket pocket. With the longtime grace of a career information broker, he parcels out sixteen hundred credits worth of crispy, untraceable Imperium banknote and plants them discreetly in the orphan's empty hand. With a satisfied grin, Threesies closes his fist around the cash. He then proceeds to spend a heedless moment, counting his exposed currency in the effective broad daylight of Takioro's Third Ring. Perspicacious as the little bugger might be, he wasn't nearly out of school yet.

  Upon discovering the substantial bonus Two-Bit proffered on top of his declared fee, Threesies appears momentarily baffled, but hides his surprise well. He hastily stores the crumpled wad of cash in the nearest approximation of a pocket his trousers possess. “For the hoofin' didee you,” Two-Bit explains, a fact Threesies seems to absorb in stride. “Hankee you another pile of rhino like that?” he proposes.

  “Pends,” Threesies, the canny negotiator, stipulates. “What thinkee you?”

  “Hoofee you again on the neath, jabber to Sifer.” Two-Bit halts in his instructions a moment and double checks, “bumpee you Sifer?”, which is met by a flurry of nodding, “Jabber to Sifer comee I after messes and we jabber quitty. Follow?”