Galactic Menace

by Timothy J Meyer

  "Ain't vizzed nobody," Two-Bit screams back, shrugging. With an inclination of his head, he indicates the host of tankards, condensation glistening invitingly off their steel sides. "A tumble or ten?"

  Famously something of a teetotaler, Odisseus shocks Two-Bit Switch when, without a second's hesitation, the Ortok scoops up a Gitterswitch and vanishes the entire beverage with three fearsome quaffs. Clanging the tankard back onto the hardwood, he remains erect a moment, the perfect pose to unleash a tremendous belch but, instead, captures another drink with a swipe of his claw.

  Applauding lightly despite himself, Two-Bit chuckles with implied congratulations. "See? There's somethin' worth celebrating."

  Another drink destroyed, the hulking Ortok slumps morosely to the bar top. He's equally oblivious to the pirouetting tankard he's just finished, the whooping of the nearby patrons as they recognize him and even the friendly pats that he, the least popular of the Lover's lieutenants, receives on the back. "I'll celebrate when I'm dead."

  "That's the wrong–" Two-Bit begins to chastise.

  Another explosion of madcap cheering forces him to plunk his alcohol down and smother both ears, each passing second inflicting more hearing damage.

  Someone from Shellshucker's obviously entered.

  Their brief meal at the oyster bar was transformed into a bizarre sport of spectator eating, the crowds cheering with each shell shucked, each joke made. On their way to the Afterburn, the crowds that dogged their step had sliced and diverted The Unconstant Lover's crew into splinter groups, each arriving at the celebration's central hub intermittently.

  To judge from both the cheering's general enthusiasm and its sheer volume, Two-Bit rules out Moira handily, much more the type to inspire a hush of reverent, fearful silence than a rousing hip-hip-hooray.

  All this excitement at the front entrance perks Odisseus suddenly upright again. For a moment, he's a perfect replica of the primordial mustelid, scanning the horizon for descending birds of prey. He sniffs once or twice on instinct but, of course, the barroom's a minefield of contradictory scents and the range of his species' shoddy eyesight seems to fall unsurprisingly short.

  It's Abraham who clears the Afterburn's entrance and steps into the shade of the celebratory saloon, swaggering with the utmost confidence of the profoundly intoxicated. Whereas the populace were eager to cluster around Two-Bit, a criminal of the people, there's some respectful berth paid to Abraham Bonaventure, his reputation hundreds of years old and twice as nasty. Consciously or unconsciously, he does leverage this fact as he swaggers about. He greets the onlookers, he laughs uproariously but he also seems to be clearing a wide open space, as though for an entrance on his coattails.

  The Bloody Afterburn and, by all the moons, Takioro Defederate Station with it, goes berserk when the Galactic Menace shuffles inside.

  Between all the hopping, hollering hoodlums, stomping their feet and spraying their booze in every conceivable direction, Nemo, oddly, looks only like Nemo. Nothing about him, not his attire, not his carriage, not his attitude, suggests the triumphant corsair king all his rioting court commends him to be.

  He wears his battered duster, his threadbare gray thermal and his expression of astounding indifference. He wears them even as Abraham Bonaventure ushers him high onto the most immediate tabletop either can find, his swaying gut and slurred curses sufficient to evacuate all its occupants. The sight of the massive Grimalti harrumphing up after Nemo earns some nearby laughter as he attempts to negotiate his prodigious bulk that far off the taproom floor.

  "There ain't a dry eye in Valladia's house tonight," opens Abraham, another chuckle rumbling through the crowd. "We've just come from our vittles, haven't we, and I've just come from hearing," he points this next comment straight at the unresponsive Nemo, "and I ain't told ye this, boyo, so pay close attention now," the crowd receives his attention again, "but word's reached me ears that Pazer Jasso were just found dead in his swank penthouse on Enbon. Two shots in the back of his head, so."

  The Grimalti's relish in announcing this is completely lost on his audience, a few faint smirks and sniggers fringing their silence. “Ye fucking dullards,” Abraham mutters, not nearly enough to himself, “ye don't remember Pazer Jasso, do ye? Piracy's pointless and all that?”

  Now that Abraham's done them the kindness of branding a name to their nebulous hatred of “the man,” a grim chuckle shudders through the crowd. In truth, however, so few among the assembled even grasp Nemo's original motive that the reference is somewhat lost on both pirate and drunkard.

  "Looks like Valladia's gone'n given him the axe," Abraham wallops a congratulatory mitt onto Nemo's shoulder. Normally, the blow would be more than sufficient to buckle the unsuspecting Captain's knees and send him collapsing to the floor, were it not for the Grimalti's implacable grip on his shoulder. "Then, congrats, boyo. Guess ye can call that a job well done."

  It's Abraham's guffawing, really, that's responsible for the crowd's own eventual fit of laughter. The sight of the jolly fat Grimalti, sloshed beyond belief and yukking himself sick, becomes too much for their own sloshed brains to handle. Even Two-Bit Switch, not nearly as inebriated as he planned to be, discovers a growing laugh escaping him, seeing the Lover's sailing master this beside himself with both alcohol and good cheer.

  Characteristically, of course, Nemo abstains from all the fun. In response to the sea of smiling faces, he offers a weak smile of his own – teeth visible, but the corners of his mouth lagging. His eyes, meanwhile, whip about the chamber, as though he's embarrassed or ashamed to share in this moment of foolishness.

  This provokes an unexpected anger somewhere in Two-Bit's surprised belly. Here, at the end of all their labors, did Nemo not deserve any merriment? Did Two-Bit therefore not either?

  "I 'spect," Abraham continues with sudden soberness, "it weren't no lie to claim that I'm a spell older than anyone present.”

  Only respectful silence contests his claim.

  “Lemme say then, speakin' as an expert, that what we've accomplished here, the rumblings 'a which I'm assured will be felt underfoot not merely across the galaxy, but across the decades to come, could easily go down in me memory as the single greatest achievement anyone flying a flag or singin' a shanty's ever, well, achieved."

  Amid a new burble of applause, shouts and whoops, Abraham continues. “And that, is thanks to all of ye present and its especially thanks to the five Captains ye see here.” He gestures correspondingly across the Captain's tables, earning more and more positive reactions from the crowd for each Captain. “And,” he adds, “it's specifically thanks to this bloomhole and his crew. Which I happen to be a part of,” he adds with a cheesy wink.

  Abraham shakes Nemo with paternal pride to the room's thunderous approval. “Lookit him – he's blushing like an airlock hooker. Take a wave, matey, for moon's sake.”

  Nemo's wave is a simple tweak of the wrist, more an ironic parody of a wave. The Captain's seemingly immune to all the honor and acclaim Abraham and his admirers heap on him. This provokes yet another surging of bile in Two-Bit's stomach.

  "Enough speechifyin', wouldn't ye say?" Abraham's suggestion is met with general approval and a smattering of hoisted tankards. “Let's get drunk and break things!” he exclaims, his two wildly upraised arms in near-perfect concert with the saloon's unanimous, full-throated cheer.

  The Captain's own trajectory, Two-Bit confirms, aims him in a generally bar-pointed direction as well. Soon as he can snag the Trijan's sleeve, Two-Bit busies himself purchasing four specialty drinks from the bartender. Incredulous as ever, Unhappy Roger's too preoccupied with the overflow of paying customers to offer much scowling or censure. When he grabs a free minute, he mixes Two-Bit's requested drinks readily enough.

  Two-Bit questions Odisseus in the meantime. “You jabbed you ain't vizzed Moira anywhere, right?”

  “I've seen you and now them,” he responds dryly.

  Two-Bit sets his jaw firm. Last thing anyone wished to d
o, in this scenario, was risk offending Moira by excluding her. From the state of the Captain's melancholy, however, rapid action was needed to prevent the utter and undeserved spoiling of Two-Bit's entire evening. Having spent close on a year looking forward to this evening, Two-Bit wasn't anywhere near ready to relinquish tonight's celebration to one of Nemo's frustratingly mistimed moods.

  Soon, the press of patrons between them tires of congratulating, praising and toasting a demonstrably morose Menace and vomits him forth onto the bar. Soon as he's within smiling distance, Two-Bit plasters on the most cheerful grin he's capable of, hefts both tankards high in greeting and strides the three steps to reach him.“I like your fucking speech, mate.”

  Nemo's response is equal parts despondency and surprise. “I didn't 'speech' anything.”

  All Two-Bit's pretense vanishes in an instant. “Moons, mate. Who's chomping on your lollies?”

  “I got like, a headache,” Nemo lies, rubbing his temple with the meat of his palm.

  Two-Bit gestures with a slosh from one tankard. “Your maggie been all bumbled up since you sat down with that Helker. You ain't blanked on what you done, has you? All ten of 'em's got blagged! That stupid fucking flasher you had's come to gritty and vizz at you. You're mopier than Moira.”

  “What's tomorrow look like,” Nemo reasons with a fatalistic glance about, “is my point.”

  “Worry about the hangover tomorrow, savvy? Tonight, we get sloshed. Vizz at what I scored ya.” He jiggles the Backwash enticingly, spilling an excusable amount of alcohol over his fingers. “Eh?”

  A resigned Nemo accepts the offered alcoholic nightmare. Tromping past Two-Bit, he claims a seat beside Odisseus at the rapidly-vacating bar. Two-Bit follows behind, ruling a shallow victory better than no victory at all.

  Seven drinks into eight, Odisseus' reaction to Nemo's approach is the exact opposite of the crowd's – little more than a grunt and a nod. With their celebrity and Nemo's penchant for unrepentantly murdering a bastard, the three of them earn half's a bar's worth of a wide and respectful berth.

  Two-Bit plants himself beside Nemo. “Vel give you any guff?”

  “Nah.” Nemo plays idly with the condensation formed on the mug in deference to elaborating any further.

  There's a somehow sizable silence between them, surrounded by all this noise. Two-Bit scrambles for conversation, Odisseus downs whatever drinks are donated him, Nemo negates any and all of Two-Bit's attempts.

  “You seen Moira?” Odisseus muzzles toward the single untouched Bile Backwash left steaming on the counter.

  “Nah,” repeats Nemo. “Not since we left lunch.”

  Once again, the silence returns unbidden. Nemo's melancholy appears only strong enough to weather a sentence or three before dropping off completely.

  To everyone's surprise, it's Nemo who actually speaks next. “Vobash's guy caught me on the way over. Guess he's organizing a wrap-up meeting tomorrow sometime, after the hangover's lifted. That place, what's it called, across from Barrel's Bottom?”

  “Hamburger Teriyaki Milkshake?”

  “That one.” He opens both palms. “Can I assume you'd both wanna ride as muscle to that tomorrow?”

  Odisseus' animalistic grunt and Two-Bit's rushed “'Course I would” overlap.

  “A formality, you know, bleeder wants to bicker about Yime's salvage rights, but should probably make an appearance.” His attention to his drink and his bad humor simultaneously return, the matter resolved. “Appreciated.”

  “Don't much care for HamTeriMilk,” Two-Bit opines, by way of fresh conversation.

  “Too much salt?” supposes Odisseus.

  “Cook's a douchebag,” Two-Bit corrects. “Messes ain't half bad, actually.”

  A jarring spray of sound, more electronic feedback than music, blares from the stage's primary speakers. An outburst of complaint from the crowd jogs Two-Bit's memory. “Oh, fuck,” he blurts suddenly. “Come vizz at what else I scored ya.”

  Before they can object, he's scooping up his own and Moira's Backwashes and urging his two companions to follow with encouraging gestures. Their own untouched Backwashes in their uncertain hands, Nemo and Odisseus round the bar's corner and come to settle onto fresh stools, also emptied by the aura of Two-Bit's celebrity.

  Reseated to better accommodate a view of the stage, Two-Bit points an eager finger over Nemo's shoulder. “You vizz that?”

  Following Two-Bit's point, the Captain's eyes play across the holographic name emblazoned on the drumhead. Two-Bit can't swear to this, but he's convinced, at the sight, a smile crosses Nemo's unjustifiably grumpy lips.

  At the moment, the stage's occupants are still predominantly technicians. They arrange instruments, grapple with amps or arrangements of colored lights, argue into headsets. At least one musician, however, has taken the stage, the author of the clarion feedback loop that summoned them over.

  Cosmic Vomit's bassist, triple-pronged axe in her grip, is a teensy little Treffel. Her blood red mohawk, somehow sprouting up from her hairless head, defies both science and nature. An instrument like the one she wears, a droidbass, is capable of laying down and switching interchangeably between three simultaneous basslines.

  The drummer is both the next to appear and universally agreed-upon as the worst musician in the trio. This savage Walkeen is known as a destroyer of holodrums galaxywide and, less notably, wanted on seven planets for assault and battery.

  Only when both of his bandmates have entered, been applauded and taken their ceremonial places before their instruments can Cosmic Vomit's lead singer, Teqoka Zigzag the Thunder-Monger, appear.

  Perhaps the only creature in the entire Outer Ring capable of producing Cosmic Vomit's incomprehensible, screaming vocals, the Thunder-Monger turns out to be a Trijan. Rock legends uphold that, while on stage, he maintained the High Trijan tradition honored by Charybdis and her crew only in private. According one passing reference from Socorro herself, Zigzag's barbaric singing constituted some minor blasphemy on their distant homeworld. This tickled Nemo immensely.

  When he does finally emerge, he's so gaunt and dreadlocked that he appears to be little more than a skeleton with hair. The guitar he's reputedly rubbish with slaps against his stomach as he walks from the stage's side entrance and grips the provided microphone in two spindly hands.

  The announcement he proceeds to make is unintelligible to audience, bandmates and even Charybdis' cluster of Trijans. At turns mumbled, at turns raspy, at turns squealed, its only decipherable content, sprinkled throughout, are his gestures. He motions once towards himself and his backers He motions once around to encompass the entire Afterburn. The third motion, the one Two-Bit paid Vomit's scuzzy manager hand-over-fist for, he makes toward Nemo, where he stands before the bar.

  Without actually comprehending his words, the crowd's aware enough to cheer at the deliberate shout-out. Amid much stomping, hooting and pounding of tankards on tabletops, an honest smile does pierce the miasma of bad mood that hung about Nemo like a vapor.

  Three smacks of the drummer's sticks – the traditional kickoff – and Cosmic Vomit's off to the races. Three seconds into the song, Two-Bit immediately recalls that he's not actually an especially big fan of Cosmic Vomit to begin with. A combined caterwauling of instruments is all his ear can make out, rather than any recognizable music or melody – all played at a decibel level that shames all the efforts of the cheering crowd.

  At this volume, the three conflicting basslines shake and shudder everything within the Afterburn – tables, chairs, bottles, patrons – and likely the station street outside as well. The holodrums explode images forth with each concussive blast. Skulls, flames, extended middle fingers, all rendered in kaleidoscopic color, are visible for a fraction of a heartbeat, at a corresponding rate to the Walkeen's drumming.

  It's the Thunder-Monger's efforts that provoke the most response from the assembled. While his hands abuse the strings of his guitar, he ululates arcane verses to a glam god in the microphone,
in a language only he seemingly has the privilege to speak. As he sings, Two-Bit legitimately spies concert-goers fleeing the direct radius of their speakers, clutching their bleeding ears in horror.

  Much as they may not be his cup of spacer's tea, Two-Bit's forced to admit that Cosmic Vomit's pretty incredible live, even just to watch.

  “You know this one?” he literally screams to Nemo and is pleased to discover him bobbing his head to the beat.

  “Yeah,” he shouts back seconds later, yelling an inch from Two-Bit's own ear. “Ass Full of Goldfish. Off their third album.”

  Two-Bit scrunches up his features. “We like the third album?”

  “We very much like the third album,” Nemo confirms. The song, not standing on ceremony, abruptly ends. “Short, though.”

  The next song and the next song pass, each roughly analogous to the first in length, tone and lyrics. Three of The Unconstant Lover's crewmen stand, their backs to their Captain's favorite bar, watching a surprise performance from their Captain's favorite band and clutching, in their hands, a sampling of everyone's least favorite drink.

  Cosmic Vomit spits and sputters, rages and rocks, and the three pirates are content to stand, watch and let their disgusting drink ripen with age.

  It's, surprisingly, Odisseus who breaks the reverie between Skullfuck Your Darlings and I Traded My Feelings For More Guns, with the tacit congratulations. “You done good.”

  “We done good,” Nemo corrects without missing a beat.

  “Whadda we specc, huh? Snag a table, jack the show, pound these back?”

  “And Moira?” Odisseus mentions, not without some grimness.

  “You know what I've always jabbed.”

  “What's that?” Nemo bites, scanning the joint for any sign of his absent first mate.

  “Fuck Moira,” Two-Bit provides.

  Wherever they walk, a pathway opens for them. The crowd is caught between raptures, one towards the Galactic Menace, another towards Cosmic Vomit, and is more than willing to let one half of their idols pass. As per his strict instructions, the crew's classic corner booth was kept undividedly reserved and even the stage was positioned to best accommodate viewing from that angle.