“That's her,” confirms Moira with a nod.
“The GCF Franchise.” Nemo sets his mouth firm. “Okay. Was really hoping for the Requisition, but we can always improvise. I mean, specs're all here.” He shrugs, waving a gesture towards the patient hologram.
Armed with fresh purpose, The Unconstant Lover's crew dive fully into this new task with a relish not seen aboard the Briza in years. To this purpose, they'd righted the dining room table and even collected its scattered chairs from the far corners of the mess hall. Odisseus and Moira both lean eagerly forward, elbows on the table, whereas Nemo stands, all the better to operate the centerpiece of their meeting.
An Attaché, timeworn and mistreated, is all that occupies the entire table. Despite its pivotal role in the caper to come, the tablet's been absent the past few weeks, buried deep amongst Nemo's nest of knicknacks. Now, as they race across the galaxy for parts unknown, the Lover's crew once again has need of Two-Bit Switch's Attaché and all it contains.
One of the things it contains are the complete holographic blueprints and technical schematics for the GCF Franchise, the starship in whose cargo bay they were currently and covertly stashed.
Officially, she's a Concord Industries Capital Freighter, G-Type 529, a design Odisseus recognizes without consulting the scrolling text. Unofficially, she's a smallish capital ship that's ostensibly meant for hauling bulk cargo. Her design, however, draws far more inspiration from luxury yachts and pleasure craft than the rest of the Outer Ring's unbecoming freighters.
She's shapely yet streamlined, classy yet cutting-edge, tasteful yet well-armed. All in all, the Franchise is a sublime space cruiser that the Gitter Corporate Fleet could be proud of.
“She's a newer model, right?” questions Odisseus, knowing the answer.
“She sure is,” Nemo confirms. “By about twenty years, actually. Shouldn't change the internal blueprints too much.”
Moira scowls through the transparent belly of the ship. “Where're we at?”
Nemo spends muttering seconds putzing with the Attaché, attempting to zoom or focus or adjust the viewpoint. Odisseus just jabs a claw at one section of the ship's underbelly, the same one that, moments later, expands tenfold, as soon as Nemo's successfully tamed the rebellious Attaché.
“There,” Nemo declares, a little too proudly. “There. That's us.” He gazes up at the Franchise's empty cargo bay, dangling a few inches before his face and then raps more fingers against the Attaché. At this, a multitude of crudely rendered asteroids pop into being, filling the barren cargo bay. “See? Jammed in there with a couple dozen other spacebergs, I imagine.”
Odisseus chooses one of the asteroids – all obvious placeholders – and tries to imagine that, beneath its five-foot layer of ice, hides the lifeless husk of The Unconstant Lover and, inside her, the three of them.
While Moira and her remote battery paid a visit to the sensor room to positively identify the Franchise, Odisseus made another visit to the molecular strip in the Lover's cargo hold. The rare, experimental and gargantuan machine had been a chore to acquire and a nightmare to install. He'd needed to yank out half a mottible of the ray shielding conduit that snakes through the ship's walls and feed through the same length of molecular strip. What's more, it required constant upkeep, searching the cord's entire perimeter for snags or frays, to prevent spoiling the strip's miraculous effect.
A fully functional molecular strip sapped ninety-percent of the ship's internal power simply to stay active, reducing The Unconstant Lover to an empty teltriton shell and not much else. A fully functional molecular strip, however, could also be dialed to positively attract specific molecules of pretty much any description – nitrogen, methane, even water.
All it took, then, to perfectly disguise The Unconstant Lover as just another harmless drifting spaceberg of the Kzelos Cloud was to dial the molecular strip to H2O and stand back to watch the fireworks. Soon as it was activated, all the frozen water within a respectable distance was drawn inexorably toward the molecular strip and, thanks to the Ortok's labors, now the Lover's hull.
So disempowered, the Briza Light Freighter would appear, to anything but the most dedicated sensor sweep, to be little more than a boring hunk of space ice, a teltriton needle in an asteroid haystack.
After all, how could the Gitter Consortium reasonably suspect the humble spacebergs of the Kzelos Cloud of harboring pirates? Paranoid as the corporation might be, it was logistically impossible to safeguard against every single avenue of attack – especially the really insane ones.
This is exactly what the late Two-Bit Switch had counted on.
Three years after his untimely disintegration, the mastermind's ghost still hung heavily over The Unconstant Lover and her remaining crew. His life's work – the most ambitious single caper in all of Bad Space's sordid history of ambitious capers – would've seen Two-Bit and his accomplices pluck the holiest of holies, a Gitter sapling, from beneath the very noses of the covetous Consortium. All the mothballed schematics, blueprints and plans discovered by a mourning Nemo, the Galactic Menace had since bent his entire being the accomplishing this impossible task.
According to him, honoring Two-Bit's memory is all the reward he requires. For Moira and Odisseus, meanwhile, there was always the 68 million credit payday.
Only on the promise of 68 million would anyone risk the outrageous five phases of the caper, each more dangerous than the last. Only on the promise of 68 million would anyone intentionally draw the lifelong ire of the dauntless Gitter Consortium, unchallenged in its ability to hunt down and eradicate its enemies.
Only on the promise of 68 million would anyone voluntarily shutter themselves for three weeks – nevermind six – within that mess hall with no one but murderers for company.
According to Two-Bit's superb intel, every three weeks, a Gitter Consortium freighter is scheduled to drop warp in the exhaustively boring Kzelos Cloud. There, they supposedly collect a boatload of spacebergs and then warp away for parts unknown. From the get-go, the crew knew there was a substantial chance the disguised Lover wouldn't be among the first batch of asteroids snagged. Indeed, they'd actually budgeted for nine weeks adrift before they’d need to cut their losses and warp back to Tesseg to resupply and try again.
In hindsight, Odisseus can't possibly imagine how they had expected to survive nine straight weeks, considering that six weeks brought them right to the brink of bloodshed.
All that's behind them now, the crew seemed silently to agree. The tone of the room is hungry, everyone eager to move past this hellish period and onto the next one. Against all odds, they'd somehow succeeded with the first phase. They were now safely stowed away within the cargo bay of the GCF Franchise, en route to its mysterious destination, and could commence with the caper's second suicidal phase.
“And where'd we have to get to?” wonders Moira, her eyes two perfect reflections of the Franchise's holographic cargo bay.
“Uh, yes. Good question.”
Nemo delves deeper into the Attaché's interface while Odisseus points another claw toward a particular bulkhead exiting the Franchise's hold. He keeps it there patiently, until Nemo can wrangle the hologram into the shape and configuration he wants.
Their view of the cargo bay zooms wider, to encompass most of the Franchise's betweendecks sections. The door Odisseus indicates glows bright yellow and serves as the origin point of a bright yellow arrow that snakes its way through the ship's twisting lower corridors. It climbs an elevator shaft at one point, wends its way through the Franchise's midsection and eventually comes to highlight an unassuming chamber off the port gunnery deck.
“There,” Nemo breathes, seemingly relieved. “Munitions depot. That's the target.”
“How many chokepoints does that make?” poses Moira.
“Should be,” Nemo calculates, counting each bulkhead with successive fingers, “seven?” When Moira scoffs, he raises both hands defensively. “Chokepoints ain't gonna matter, though remember?”
“Speak for yourself.”
Nemo spreads his hands a little further. “Them's all the particulars.” He shuffles backward and drops onto his improvised seat, a hovering cargo crate, with a slight bob and a renewed hum of its driftmotor. “Walk me through.”
Odisseus and Moira share a glance and an inward sigh. All too often during the caper's lengthy planning stage would Nemo spring these impromptu quizzes, fancying himself Two-Bit's replacement as mastermind.
“I start,” Odisseus begins, not attempting to mask the weariness in his voice. “Open the airlock and carve as small a path through the ice as the cutting beam can. Large enough for somebody to squeeze through, small enough not to be noticed.” As he speaks, the Ortok's very aware how his tone doesn't exactly betray utmost confidence in Two-Bit's plan. “Just gotta pray the airlock didn't end up somewhere especially noticeable.” When no objection comes from the Captain, Odisseus flops backwards in his chair and passes the metaphorical baton across the table. “Then Moira's up.”
“Leave the ship,” continues Moira, not leaving a second of slack and equally as bored as Odisseus. “Leave the bay. Locate the nearest security termina–”
Nemo flicks up a finger, asking for momentary patience as his other hand fiddles with something on the Attaché. He's immensely satisfied with himself, moments later, when he manages to command the device to perform the simplest of functions.
Branching off from the primary yellow pathway, a new green arrow draws a secondary route through the GCF Franchise's corridors. Eventually, it comes to rest in a miniature atrium of sorts, a short distance away, and highlights what appears to be a small service kiosk – the nearest security terminal.
With a condescending gesture, Nemo permits Moira to continue.
“–and upload Mayhem.” Moira finishes, none too happy at either his interruption or his attitude. She points a gloved finger towards the Attaché. “And that's on there?”
“Yup. My Evil Plan 7.” Once more, he drops his attention back to Two-Bit's bequeathed Attaché. “For the sake of argument–”
Before his captive audience, Nemo rifles through the Attaché and activates a simulation he's run no less than two dozen times for their benefit. The word “SIMULATION” flashes approximately four billion times across the hologram as they watch, to calm any fears they might have.
Before their eyes, the GCF Franchise has a conniption fit. Alarms are triggered sporadically across the ship. Airlock doors all along the Franchise's broadsides open seemingly at random, venting imaginary crew unsuspectingly into space. Like one hundred sets of chattering teeth, every automatic door on each of the cruiser's ten decks chomp open and closed with erratic abandon. Odisseus even sees tiny simulated engine fires, bursting to life at various points along the Franchise's turbine bank.
In a word, Odisseus would summarize the sudden change that's overcome the holographic space cruiser as mayhem.
Unsurprisingly, Moira's less than impressed. “Then, it's back to the rendezvous.”
Nemo shoots a point across the table to Odisseus. “And where's that?”
“Lower atrium,” the Ortok provides without missing a beat. “That's where you and I head.” As he explains, Odisseus traces a claw along the yellow route until he lands at a tall vertical chamber, jutting through the Franchise's midsection. “Soon as things go to shit.”
Nemo looks suggestively at him. “You and me and...”
“And...our thumbs up our bloomholes?” Odisseus shrugs both paws. “What do you fucking–”
Moira's merciful. She beats Nemo to his patronizing gesture – tapping his heels against his improvised chair – by a second. “The crate,” she reminds Odisseus before turning to Nemo with a withering look. “Quit being a prick.”
“Yes, the crate. Obviously the crate,” Odisseus snaps, masking his embarrassment beneath irritation. “That goes without saying.”
“Apparently not,” mutters Nemo with a sidelong glance. Odisseus spends a moment muscling down the instinct to claw the Captain's face off and chew on it for a while. Luckily, Nemo claps once, like he's some doofy camp counselor, and it's enough to shake Odisseus from his murderous reverie. “Now, the four of us are reunited at the rendezvous. Where to next?”
“The rest of the way,” Moira answers, the most self-evident thing in the galaxy. To illustrate her point, she copies the Ortok's gesture and runs her finger along the yellow line, all the way to its terminus on the port gunnery deck. “Munitions depot. Eighth deck.”
“And the chokepoints?” Nemo wonders, pointing out a few of the spasming bulkheads along the way.
“Mayhem should handle those, for the most part,” acknowledges Odisseus with a nod toward the hologram. “May need to bash down a few doors here and there but we'll see.”
Moira keeps her finger there, piercing the hologram at the relevant room. “Soon as we're at the depot, we swap the crates, hotfoot back and nobody'll be the wiser.”
This time, it's Moira's turn to recline backward in her chair, this phase of the caper explained for the umpteenth time. They both stare at Nemo, waiting to see whether he'll deign to rubberstamp their understanding of the plan.
The Galactic Menace waggles his hand back and forth and makes a wishy-washy face.
“What'd we forget?” Odisseus asks, with zero enthusiasm for the question.
“I seem to remember,” recalls Moira thoughtfully, “telling you something about pricks and quit being one.”
Nemo counts each infraction on his fingers. “Uniforms. Weapons. Aliases.”
“Uniforms?” snorts Odisseus. “We're wearing uniforms. There. Crushed it.”
“But uniforms're all we got,” Moira makes the point, looking sympathetically towards the Ortok.
Odisseus scowls at this. “Don't take his fucking side. Plus,” he glances back to Nemo for confirmation, “there's those idents, too.”
“Not dedicated ones, though,” Nemo informs, shrugging helplessly. “Didn't know which ship we were gonna get. Took sorta a gamble on maybe getting the Requisition or the Entrepreneur but here came the Franchise instead.” He glances about him, as though in search of something he doesn't find. “Ain't got time or tools to make appropriate ones now.”
“So, we've got ident cards,” Odisseus establishes, “but for the wrong ship?”
“They're for no ship. They're generic,” Nemo explains. “To the naked eye, from a distance, at a glance, they'll maybe look alright. Anything else and we're boned ten ways from Jotor.”
“Well. That's depressingly thin.”
“Them's the breaks. Normally,” Nemo takes the time to needlessly explain, “we'd be bloomed before we reached the first chokepoint but that's what the Mayhem's for.” He counts on his next finger. “Weapons.”
“None,” answers Moira, the blooming teacher's pet, immediately. “Doesn't work with the uniform. Doesn't work with the alias.”
“Who's a smart lady?” compliments Nemo, like one might to a well-behaved jborra.
“I will carve my initials on your scrotum.”
Threats like this roll off the Captain like water. “Point is, we gotta stay outta trouble. Best case, we get lost in all the chaos. Worst case, we get spotted, jig's up and we've only got your ten claws, her two tits and my huge dick to defend ourselves with.”
“I will cook your balls over an open flame.”
“So,” Nemo starts to chastise, planting his fists parentally on his hips. “I want everyone on their best behavior.” Amid a chorus of grumbling, Nemo counts on his thumb, his final figure. “Aliases.”
“This buhoxshit again,” Odisseus keeps grumbling, tossing his paws against the tabletop.
The Captain thrusts an accusatory finger at Moira. “Name and rank, spacer,” he commands, suddenly all authoritative.
“Jesbra Thoi,” Moira rattles off in a bored monotone. “Petty Gunnery Officer. Homeworld Ujad. Six-week transfer from GCF Trademark. Germaphobe.”
“State your business in the engi
neer–”
“Running routine interference,” Moira continues to deadpan. “Load of ditrogen waste got misplaced, we think.”
Nemo scrunches up his face. “Is that how you're gonna say it?”
“I will sell your dick wholesale to a Whuudi witch doctor.”
Immune as always, Nemo spins his point around toward his saltbrother. “Name and rank, spacer.”
“This is degrading,” growls Odisseus morosely.
Nemo drops character a moment but doesn't drop his posture “This is our only option.”
“This is degrading and speciesist and I refuse.”
The Captain converts his point into a few placating gestures. “Trust me,” he assures Odisseus, “if Two-Bit Switch could've arranged some forged Ortoki documentation, I'm sure he would've.”
Odisseus snorts. “I'm sure.”
“Such as it is, though, we gotta work with what we're given.” His hands, palms up, become balancing scales. “That means you either pretend to be a Quarg for a few hours or you wait patiently here for Moira and I to finish.”
Odisseus follows this with a great shuddering sigh. “Gwraawroogaralox,” he consents. “Gunnery Tech First Class. Homeworld's obviously Tivoss. Promoted to First Class two days ago. Definitely not an Ortok or anything.”
Nemo fails at looking properly sympathetic. “All goes according to plan, nobody's gonna stop and run your blooming genetics. Your ident says you're a big shaggy dude and you look like a big shaggy dude. There's some deniability there.”
For the umpteenth time, the Ortok clenches his teeth and refuses to rise to the bait. “Some,” is all he bothers to confirm, staring daggers at the spinning hologram.
Nemo presses both palms together and offers him the slightest bow. “Your cooperation is appreciated.” Odisseus sees the next phrase coming a mottible away, his saltbrother's very favorite new saw, ever since he'd sunk his teeth deep into the matter of Two-Bit's orphaned caper.
“It's what Two-Bit would have wanted.”
FIRST INTERLUDE
Unconstant Love Page 6
