Galactic Menace

by Timothy J Meyer

  “Right,” Nemo resolves, glancing suddenly up from his boots with ironshod resolve. “Long as we're all on the same page then.”

  Moira Quicksilver couldn't care fucking less about Trija.

  Nemo and Garrock Brondi could've centered their wager around pillaging Medroteria, all ten of the Talos moons or the inside of Gertie Gundeck's vagina. As long as Moira Quicksilver was afforded the opportunity to employ Righty and Lefty toward the business of killing moronic men with guns, who cares where or what they plundered?

  Until such time as this opportunity was presented her, Moira would smoke Yellowtooth Cigarettes, say nothing and generally play the hard case better than anyone else around.

  Had the slimy smuggler stuck around more than a millisecond after the handshake and the gunshot wound, Garrock Brondi would've made an ideal target for Moira's homicidal therapy. Whatever the motives for his sudden reappearance, a smarmy, dark-haired humanoid with pilot's calluses and a god complex was near enough to the genuine article for Moira's tastes.

  She's certain she could've derived even some small amount of vicarious pleasure from throttling the uppity life from Garrock Brondi's uppity little throat.

  Instead, she must continue to endure the prattling, obliviousness and suicidally ambitious tendencies of her birdbrained employer and erstwhile ruiner of her one and only skirt. At present, he busied himself with the choking down of one of Hamburger Teriyaki Milkshake's eponymous hamburger teriyaki milkshakes. From repeated exposure, she knew his straw was mere seconds away from making that obnoxious slurping noise that he'd abuse for something nearing the next fifteen minutes.

  “Frankly, I'm uncertain what, precisely, you're hoping to accomplish by all this,” Captain Vobash bemoans. All the staples of his entourage, Baziron, jarhead and brushvezzer, were in attendance around him, the latter of which he feeds atomically small portions of ground buhoxbeef.

  All the other staples of a classic Council of Captains meeting – Greatgullet, the Xendo ambassador, Charybdis – were also in attendance. Each one, save the Trijan, appears vaguely peeved at Nemo's insistence they not only remain aboard the station another three days but also his insistence at convening yet another council, for the expressed purpose of pitching them a second time. Some portion, Moira imagines, of this frustration originates from the fact that he chose to set Hamburger Teriyaki Milkshake, once again, as the meeting's backdrop.

  “My vote hasn't changed,” denies Vobash categorically.

  Nemo ceases slurping a moment, sniffs once, drops his hand tellingly to his lap and sniffs again. “Yes, it has.”

  She's never credited the Captain as anything resembling a quick draw. Even in her present mood of extreme prejudice, however, she's forced to award Nemo the point.

  Within the space of the Triomman's confused squint, Nemo's fully extended his shooting arm and motored a single canister through his antique pistol, the bolt streaking across the café's tables with an unexpected blue light. The squinting Vobash is caught in the meat of the neck and topples backward from his chair.

  Before he hits the floor, Moira's granted the briefest vision of the clean hole Nemo's ditrogen burnt through his throat.

  Trick shooting immediately becomes necessary. The Baziron and the jarhead, only stunned momentarily, are instantly on their feet with weapons to bear. A pair of pretty shots from Righty and Lefty leave similarly smoking craters in place of the firing chambers of both their SV7s.

  This action, supported by Odisseus' sudden bellow even more than Nemo's out-and-out murder of Vobash, throws each Captain and their entourage from their own seats and sparks the second such Talosian standoff the Council's ever exploded into.

  The Xendo ambassador's no longer visible behind a thick curtain of its interposing soldiers, but it voices its concern all the same. “Highly irregular. Highly irregular.”

  “You better spew out what it is you've got in your head, boss,” Greatgullet warns, sword in hand, Boogers and Teeth each staring blank-eyed at Moira and Odisseus respectively, “else things're liable to turn real ugly.”

  Nemo is nonchalant, hauling off and murdering one's peers in cold blood the most normal thing in the universe. “I nominate,” he nominates calmly, blue smoke still eddying from the barrel of his pistol, “Gertrude Gundeck to replace Ciff Vobash.”

  A stilted moment passes. Each Captain eyes each other with suspicion and waits, without purchase, for the second shoe to proverbially drop.

  Nemo frowns and shoots a glance back over his left shoulder towards Hamburger Teriyaki Milkshake's pair of forlorn restrooms. His expression, as he repeats with insistence, suggests he's suddenly lost nerve and might lock himself in a toilet stall. “I nominate Gertrude Gundeck to replace Ciff Vobash.”

  A second or two past the appropriate cue, the stained door to the women's bathroom squeals open. As summoned, Captain Gertie Gundeck sashays into the main well of the restaurant. Over her shoulder, she thumbs apologetically towards the sealed bathroom door. “Couldn't hear nothing in there, gents. Somebody's taking a huge dump.”

  The Council's consternation arrives somewhat late. Upon realizing that the odds just tipped quite severely in favor of the Galactic Menace, the assembled marauders start in with the muttering between themselves. Few, even the famously vociferous Greatgullet, dare theirs to reach an audible level, as long as Moira has weapons in her hands.

  Nemo wastes little time. “I propose we sack the Supreme Sovereignty of Trija. All opposed?” As expected, the Xend flutter their antennae in accord while the Obaxi buccaneer, clearly conflicted, suspicious and confused, slowly raises a tentative, many-ringed hand. “All in favor?” Charybdis and Gertie race each other's hands to show the most support for the Menace's foolhardy venture. Nemo raises his hand last, determined to be tiebreaker.

  The math painfully evident even to a dullard like Nemo, the Captain sheathes his firearm with finality. “That's settled, then.”

  Gertie smiles her crusty, floozy's smile. “Flattered to be aboard, fellas.”

  The Point of Piracy

  A Candid Conversation with the 34th Galactic Menace

  By Wezz

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

  This is what Nehel Morel, Galactic Menace, would say when given an open microphone to the galaxy. He would like to call you all cunts and threaten your lives.

  A previous Galactic Menace might use the platform of this column to plug their causes, to proclaim their agenda or their innocence, to rail against the forces that've labeled them as terrorists, as murderers of men, as a menace to the entire galactic way of life. Not Nemo – he chooses instead to cuss everyone out, fans and detractors alike.

  He took immense pleasure in this description of you, dear reader – he was visibly tickled at the prospect of naming a good portion of the galaxy's literate as cunts.

  That's the major takeaway from my interview with our newest Galactic Menace. Much as he claims he could care less, to Nemo, it's exceptionally important what you think about him.

  INITIAL MEETINGS

  My interview with the 34th Galactic Menace was conducted with an alarming amount of clandestineness. When I'd initially been contacted, I'd briefly imagined flying out to Talos II, talking shop beneath the eaves of their alleged pirate fortress and at the Freebooter Fleet's very heart.

  Instead, the Menace's management opted for a discrete orbital hotel, for a proscribed length of time, with a squad of celebrity bodyguards awaiting our return back in the lobby.

  It was Two-Bit Switch – no other alias known – who initially made contact, wishing to arrange an interview. Born and raised on Takioro Defederate Station, Two-Bit Switch speaks Jabber, specializes in jailbreaking and is, in every other way, an ordinary and accomplished career criminal. Since his employer's declaration of Menacehood, however, he now styles himself as Nemo's business manager and handled the majority of the logistics surrounding our interview.

  In the intervening time s
ince the interview was conducted, Two-Bit has become nearly as recognizable as the Menace himself, thanks to a series of pestilential advertisement campaigns from CryoChew, Bubble, Happy Yum-Yum and Yellowtooth that have been circulated across every corner of the Outer Ring.

  There's another first in the history of the office – there's never been a Galactic Menace whose so embraced the limelight, who marketed themselves as a people's Menace more than Nemo and his crew has. During his tenure, Ott couldn't have cared less for the public's perception of him, a popular trend among those who've held the ignoble title of Galactic Menace over the decades.

  Nemo operates on an entirely different set of principles. Surrounded by his bodyguards and his buccaneers, today's Galactic Menace waves to his fans, signs autographs, soaks in the public's adoration – as anyone can see on any modern holo that's taken of him. He drinks his fame the same as he drinks his alcohol – with great and regular relish.

  His primary bodyguard is the least publicized member of his immediate posse; a hulking Ortoki shadow that follows him about, as though leashed. I hadn't the pleasure to exchange many words with Odisseus – no other alias known – but all the normal reticence and distrust one expects of a lifelong partner and canister-catcher were present in him.

  It's his other bodyguard, the ex-bounty hunter, that I found more intriguing. Evidently, the persistent rumors of Nemo converting fledgling bounty hunter Moira Quicksilver – no other alias known – to his cause purely on the strength of his buhoxshit are, straight from the arlaxi's mouth, one-hundred-percent true.

  I also wasn't able to pull her aside for either a statement or a quote, but I was fortunate enough to watch her heartlessly murder a pair of pedestrians that approached the Menace a touch too enthusiastically. She does wield the pair of advertised 665 Lawmen and she can draw them both faster than I can describe how fast she draws them.

  I can also confirm that she sleeps with a nightlight.

  PORTRAIT OF A PSYCHOPATH

  Nemo, as he's insisted I refer to him, wouldn't argue that descriptor, by the way.

  His holos do depict the Menace's appearance accurately. He is taller than you'd expect, particularly when every holo you can find depicts him in the company of either his fellow Captains – all of them giants – or his Ortoki bodyguard, who looms over anyone. His hair is that shade of black, his eyes are that shade of gray and he does still wear the very same trench coat he was nearly disintegrated in.

  He's loose, effusive and uncouth in his speech. He's quick to curse, easy to sidetrack and impossible to herd back onto the topic at hand. He drank like a sailor during our entire interview and pillaged the suite's minibar as savagely as he'd pillaged Ohostoi, Adrog or Valladia Prime.

  Having never actually witnessed the act, it's easy to imagine him murdering with the same compunctionless manner that he eats salted nuts.

  His exact date of birth I couldn't confirm, nor, I think, he does actually know. At twenty-five years of age, he's the second youngest Galactic Menace in history, Obwala unlikely to be unseated from his position anytime soon. Like the Eraser before him, Nemo's natively Gallwegian and, unlike the Eraser, he trails an impressive list of crimes, offenses and misdemeanors from an active youth. From an early age, it seems Nehel Morel harbored no respect for authority or other's property – theft, carjacking and vandalism are frequent repeats on that list.

  He acquired his famed piloting skills as a mercenary jockey, flying for a now-disbanded quadron calling themselves simply the "Raptors." Under the call sign "Osprey," Nemo logged countless cockpit hours on the payroll of about everyone wealthy and corrupt across Bad Space.

  Curiously, no members of the Raptors remain alive enough to make a statement.

  He doesn't appear on any galactic records for piracy until just three short years ago. He next appears zigzagging a path across Myxo Quadrant, from Vollok to Vhase to No'tiukki, acquiring his crew. He seems to favor a wide variety of flavors, from childhood friends – Odisseus – to industry professionals – Two-Bit Switch – to talented novices – Moira Quicksilver.

  Something about this fledgling crew attracted the attention of piratical notable Abraham Bonaventure to Nemo's roster. Rumor, one I couldn't corner the legendary old Grimalti to confirm, persists Bonaventure's actually responsible for naming their ship, the name that's now become lionized across both wanted and teenage bedroom posters galaxywide: The Unconstant Lover.

  The ship's records, unlike its Captain's, were much easier to track down. The famous IZ36 Briza Light Freighter is, matter-of-fact, a remix, containing equal parts Yeltain jetbooster and experimental steering platform to offset its original elements. According to its original seller – an Ufaki salvagier from the Mannimar Scrapyards – The Poetic License once ferried lonktonks to and from the surface of Yon, deep in the Offchart Territories.

  These days, she's credited by experts as the most maneuverable spaceship of her weight class. She's certainly the most famous, the price of the few remaining Brizas skyrocketing galaxywide in the wake of the Lover's fame.

  Devoted Nemo fans familiar with his earlier work will remember, two years previously, when the Captain's first real breakthrough came under the employ of Boss Ott, Nemo's indirect precursor to the office of the Galactic Menace. His first fifteen minutes, for the uninitiated, involved his destroying an Imperial Pylon-class warship, the Exacting Counterattack, on Ott's orders, a feat he'd eventually replicate with the Freebooter Fleet and the Preemptive Strike.

  Except, that first time, Nemo and his crew flew alone against the Pylon and all her starfighters.

  His name wouldn't become public knowledge, of course, until Valladia Shipping accepted their fateful contract and subsequently drew the Captain's eye, all those months later.

  IS PIRACY POINTLESS?

  "Saw the broadcast, made me angry," explains the Menace, sipping on his champagne. To him, it wasn't enough that the Imperium was, by hoyle, creeping its claws into Bad Space. It was their attitude while they did so.

  He cites the oft-repeated sound bite "piracy is pointless" as his constant inspiration.

  "Piracy broke Takioro. Piracy founded Bad Space," he says. "Piracy is what drove the Imperium outta the Ring with the tails up their bloomholes."

  For Nemo, the Imperium is the blackened heart of practically all he does. He also describes them as pirates, as "strapping on assault rifles" and heading "off to shoot the natives and steal their stuff." He cities Nos Mantri, Jhiron and especially Baz, where, under Boss Ott's power, he no doubt witnessed first hand the savagery and slaughter Insurgent Company wrought upon the native population.

  "Long as they've the biggest cock in the galaxy," he rants, "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?'"

  The life of a Gallwegian miscreant would've taught Nehel Morel at a ripe age the heartless nature of an uncaring government. On the streets of Underglow, the bellies of urchins bloat from starvation while the coffers of the casinos a short distance above overflow with all the Inner Sector's squandered wealth.

  Valladia, he describes, as the "tool the Imperium's decided to use today." When it comes to their resources, Nemo doesn't seem to draw a line between Valladia or Imperium, implying their complete collusion as such. "[The Imperium's] tired of watching buhox, carbon petro, lumber, bloom know what else profitably change hands in the Ring, zottibles beyond the reach of their meddling."

  To Nemo, the cargo contract, the Imperium's allegedly earnest attempt to expand trade and grow its economy, is nothing but cynical profiteering. "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 does and now, Imperium's got hooks, taxes and flags down on ten of the richest independent ports in all the Outer Ring."

  When asked whether forming the Freebooter Fleet was an attempt to bring justice to the Imperium, he scoffed
and described justice as "for Brock Rocket and His Patriotic Twats. [The Freebooter Fleet,] for him, was about "delivering fucking punishment."

  He even recalls exactly where he was when he first heard the phrase "piracy is pointless." Fresh from a jailbreak, Nemo and his crew caught the initial press conference over pizza above Qel Qatar. "I wanted to take the point of piracy," he recalls, "and stab someone through the eyeball with it."

  "Is piracy pointless?" I asked him.

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

  FORMING THE FLEET

  "Didn't all come to me instantly, that'd be lying," he admits. "My first idea involved going solo, for lack of anything smarter."

  From the very beginning, Nemo knew he couldn't inflict enough damage to Valladia and their Imperial sponsors on his own or even simply with the help of his "capable but shortsighted" crew. "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."

  Five years as a mercenary fighter jockey, five years flying as part of a quadron, would've hammered the importance of wing mates into young Nemo's head. No one spaceship, no five individual pirates, would ever be able to orchestrate the collapse of Valladia Shipping, the Menace was clearly aware from the onset.

  Unfortunately, his time as a mercenary jockey would also have taught him that help doesn't come cheap.

  During our conversation, the Galactic Menace pleads guilty to a lucrative bank heist staged on his homeworld of Gallow in the closing months of the previous year – all to fund the initial stages of the Freebooter Fleet.

  By posing as an armored driftvault, four robbers were able to make off with approximately six million in untraceable cash during a Worldshine bank transfer. Their ruse was uncovered mid-heist and, in a bid to escape from the pursuing police forces, the disguised driftvault displayed a jamming code, packaged with a certain famous Jolly Roger, that positively confirmed Nemo's involvement.