As the Midworlds fought their small wars, the revolts, insurrections and outright rebellions against the Imperium, it invariably created more shadowports, licentious dens of vice and villainy where any scoundrel could shelter and turn a quick profit. Planets like Ponembra, Gy Mbano and Danboowui were growing their own litle Takioros, smugglers' paradises that specialize in moving contraband through the wartorn cracks in the Imperium's borders.
This meant fewer and fewer of the region's outlaws needed to brave Takioro's steep docking fees and could instead drink and lounge and fuck in any of the lawless boomtowns springing to life on the moons of Wask and Ganad Minor. With the customers, of course, went the vendors. Velocity knew for a fact that more than a third of those vendors that closed up their station shops had relocated to these nearby upstarts.
What Velocity and Takioro as a whole needed was to stay relevant. It only took one stray glance at a holovision to discern that, right now, there's nothing in the galaxy more relevant than Nehel Morel.
When he did seemingly emerge from hiding, even then, the Vollocki queenpin wouldn't swallow the story whole cloth. She'd naturally assumed, when rumors of the Consortium bounty and the sighting above Arzenka reached her ears, that this was another Imperial plot, like the Nemo lookalike they'd collared in that Xhorish whorehouse. Then the story kept developing, the prodigal Menace leading an extended police pursuit all across the Midworlds.
That's when Velocity truly started to wonder whether or not this might be the real deal, whether the actual Nehel Morel, asspain of asspains, had indeed returned from death or obscurity.
Soon, she was convinced this was the genuine article, tooling about Bad Space in his unmistakable Briza Light Freighter. Soon, she became convinced of something else. Like a child running back inside when it rains, he would come back to where he started; maybe to stay dry, maybe to gloat about how wet he got out there.
Either way, Velocity saw him coming half a galaxy away. True to form, he came bearing a suspiciously lucrative business offer and, also true to form, he tried her patience from moment one.
Velocity sits alone at the corner table of an abandoned Bloody Afterburn. Her nearest office, the backroom of Infamous Issipor’s Borulbaan BBQ, is down the street and, on the way between, Velocity had a strange little stroll, hands in pockets, through the utterly abandoned Second Ring. Each clomp of her hooves echoed, one set of footfalls filling halls normally filled by screaming, stomping and the occasional explosion.
When he'd established contact with her, he'd made three demands, each one as unreasonable as the last. Then and there, Velocity nearly scoffed in his face and went about her way. Her station and her livelihood, however, was three inches this side of a fatal tailspin and the Depot-Commissioner couldn't afford to look a gift Menace in the mouth.
First, he'd demanded that they meet alone and he meant alone. He wanted the station, tip to top, emptied of all occupants – every swinging dick that sauced, shopped and slept here – all to conduct this chat in paranoid privacy. His extreme caution was logical, in its way, and she'd assured him of his safety but he was adamant; an empty station or no sit down.
Given no choice, she'd emptied the station. It took no small amount of effort. For the brainless masses, she employed a broad and hilariously implausible cover story. Beyond that, there were a few costly bribes and favors towards those heavy-hitters who still called Takioro home. It wasn't easy but this was her station and here, Velocity could make anything happen. There wasn't a bum, beggar or busker left aboard to draw one breath of Takioro Defederate Station's artificial air – save her and soon, her guest.
The second demand was perhaps easier but much more obnoxious. They were both to be unarmed. Once again, it's a logical move, considering how lucrative his mere presence could prove. This still put Velocity at a considerable disadvantage, even if he pretended to play fair. Not knowing his motives, there was no way to assume he wasn't here to settle an old score and put a ditrogen slug straight through her, when she thought they were meeting on even turns. Not born yesterday, Velocity was hesitant to put herself in so vulnerable a position before the galaxy's professedly most dangerous man.
Unfortunately, there was nothing for this either, despite the balking of her bodyguards. To ensure her own security, she'd taken a few small precautions but sat at that table wearing no weapon, visible or otherwise.
Velocity recognized the third demand as a concession to sentimentality. He was to make his pitch in the Bloody Afterburn over a pair of Bile Backwashes. These she'd mixed herself, taking liberty with Unhappy Roger's supplies, and wondered idly whether Nemo, the drink's biggest connossieur, would notice the difference. Whether or not Velocity would drink hers, she'd yet to decide, her own tankard bubbling ominously before her.
Poison occurred to her instantly, his corpse alone probably worth enough to save her station from the scrap heap. He'd suspect something, of course, was prudent enough to request no weapons and were he actually coming here bearing an opportunity, a bungled poisoning would squander the whole thing.
The corner table, the one reserved for him and his crew by long tradition, wasn't one of his express demands. It was Velocity's instinct, however, the moment she entered the tavern and it was the only place that seemed appropriate to meet him.
Empty of all the scum, the Bloody Afterburn isn't quite the scumhole she'd always assumed. For one, it's roomier than she remembered in here, with no crowd to clutter up the place. For another, the place doesn't stink quite so bad, that fault evidently lying with the patrons rather than the establishment.
All in all, there's something oddly serene about the bar's vast emptiness, a cathedral of teltriton girders and crosspieces. The only sound is the slight swing and sway of the tavern's namesake turbine where it hangs from the Afterburn's ceiling, spattered with blood long ago dried sickly brown.
Velocity isn't certain how long she waits there, listening to the creak and whine of those chains. Her comm is jury-rigged to warn her when The Unconstant Lover makes contact, when the ship touches down in Docking Port #6188, when a shoot fires from the First to Second Ring.
She's not remotely surprised, then, when Nemo strides through the tavern's front doors. He, however is taken completely by surprise the moment he steps through those doors and the gun detectors stop him dead.
Nemo's frozen in place as oscillating lines of yellow laserlight trace across his body in a spreading grid. He doesn't seem particularly hassled by this, instead throwing a finger towards the arch that encases him. “These new?”
“Borrowed them,” Velocity answers, no need to shout in the eerie silence, “from our buddy down the 'bounce.” She spreads her hands a little in a revealing gesture. “You understand.”
“Better safe than smoking,” he concurs. The detector completes its scan, the cautionary yellow becomes acceptant green and Nemo's permitted to pass through. The moment he does, he thumbs over his shoulder, rapt with amazement. “Fucking trippy out there, isn't it?”
“Fucking expensive,” she corrects, “is what.”
He makes a dismissive swipe of his hand as he approaches. “Stick with me, kid,” he scoffs with that accursed tone of his, “and you're gonna be rolling in it.”
“That so?” she poses flatly, thoroughly unimpressed by all his bravado. “Do tell.”
As he approaches, Velocity makes an subconscious survey of the captain she used to know, wondering whether interstellar fame and fortune have changed anything in his swagger.
It's less the high life that Velocity sees in those familiar features and more the low life. His years spent off the radar, lurking in the galaxy's bloomhole, have taken an obvious toll on the Captain. The unimaginable stress of a hunted life is etched heavily on his face, despite his youth and exuberance. The hair's longer, shaggier and more unkempt but the costume's virtually unchanged. He wears a nondescript blue thermal, forgettable gray trousers and, as ever, that cumbersome leather duster that's more a part of Nemo than his own shad
ow.
It's his expression that has changed the least, though. He wears the exact combination of arrogance, carelessness and stupidity that he might've four years earlier, though the face beneath is carved with cares and worries.
Plus – and perhaps she's misremembering – he's a little chunkier. More junk food and holovision, she supposes with all his time in hiding, than gunfights and bar brawls.
“All business?” he comments archly as he approaches. He's much more killer than charmer, Velocity knows, and the smooth-talker angle clanks awkwardly against his persona. She wonders whether his years in exile have blunted his negotiation skills.
“Every minute there aren't drunkards spending money out there,” she points past him, through the gun detectors and onto the station street, “I lose money.”
Nemo flaps aside one wing of his duster and plants his ass on the opposite side of the booth. “Appreciate all the trouble you've gone to. Your safety as much as mine, really.”
“I'm sure.”
Once he's sitting, he slaps his thighs and gazes appreciatively around at his surroundings. “They remodel in here?” he comments idly, pointing vaguely up at the walls.
“I can assure you,” she sighs, impatience growing, “they did not.”
“Huh. Seems new.”
“Is there some way we can–”
His eyes land back on the Bile Backwash and fill with sudden relish. He rubs his hands together in anticipation before taking hold of the tankard. “Tell you the truth,” he confesses, excitement in every aspect of his body language. “Was probably the most excited about this part.”
“I'm fucking touched,” Velocity sighs, frustrated twenty seconds into their first interaction in years. “Thought about poisoning yours, but–”
He throws his head back and chugs happily away at the tankard's nauseating contents. Two gulps in he makes her wish she had poisoned him; Nemo has the audacity to stick a finger in her face and sue for quiet while he indulges his complimentary drink. The Depot-Commissioner next debates a savage kick under the table but, considering her hooves and her Vollocki strength, she doesn't imagine breaking his bones would speed the conversation along any.
He drains the entire thing, slamming the empty tankard back to the tabletop. His exhale threatens to become a burp, his face scrunching into a grimace. “Roger mix these?” he says, glancing with surprise at what he's just drunk. “Tastes like hot garbage.”
For some reason, this bristles Velocity a little, somehow insulted by her inability to mix a drink that's supposed to taste like garbage in the first place. “You've got three moons-damned seconds,” she threatens, leaning forward to point an aggressive finger in his face, “to tell me why you arranged this whole sheba–”
“Gotta move some merch,” Nemo explains, wiping sour foam from his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, bleached beige from repeated use of this tactic. “Looking for buyers with lotsa scratch and more balls. Interested?”
“Could be.” Velocity is unimpressed with his vagaries. “Depends on damn near every detail you ain't given me yet.”
The smarmy look on his face makes her instantly reconsider her earlier “hoof-to-knee” idea. “You looked at a holovision lately?”
Of course she had, the damn things buzz pestilentially all across the station, and she wasn't so braindead that she couldn't guess what he was implying. The rumors she'd heard surrounding the Menace's reappearance were so utterly preposterous and full of obvious embellishment, Velocity simply couldn't credit anything she'd heard.
“Consortium ain't happy with you,” is all she chooses to give him. “To the tune of enough scratch to buy me a new central spire.”
“What?” Nemo's face instantly scowls. “You don't like the asteroid? Trust me,” he very unnecessarily assures her, “I been to Ikoril and those things ain't all they're–”
“You can arrive at the point,” Velocity suggests dangerously, “or you can depart from my fucking sight.”
“The merch I'm looking to move,” Nemo explains, “is a tree.”
This bomb dropped, he's leaning back, studying her reaction as intently as Velocity works to control that reaction. She keeps her face utterly blank, no surprise or incredulity or anything, forcing Nemo to speak next.
“The rumors you've heard are true,” he goes onto say. “'cept for the one where Moira's killed me and taken control of the shp. Or the one where Odi's killed me and taken–”
“A tree?” Velocity repeats. “A tree tree? A Gitterpeach tree?”
“That's the one.” Reaching into his voluminous duster for anything but a gun, the Captain withdraws a slim holodeck. He slaps this onto the table and, after a moment, bids Velocity to activate it.
The hologram that comes leaping into view doesn't look like any Gitterpeach tree Velocity's ever imagined. It's a squat cactus with a dozen thorny ridges descending down its bulbous sides and a single flower, all blue and white speckles, that blooms from its crown.
The hologram spins and Velocity spends a moment in study. Nemo, momentarily ignored, crawls one hand across the table and snags Velocity's ignored Backwash with a few fingers.
Her first question is the obvious one. “How do I know–”
“Blech,” squeams Nemo, pulling that same sour face again. “Tastes like the wet end of a diarretic yuzzoboar.”
“How do I know,” Velocity insists, “it's authentic?”
He shrugs as he wipes his mouth again. “Consortium's pretty eager to get me. Alive, right?” He licks his lips to catch any spare Backwash he might find there. “Plus, were this some kinda elaborate hoax, don't you think I'd try a little harder to make the thing look like an actual fucking tree?”
Velocity can't necessarily argue with this backwards logic. By now, the long-smothered pirate captain in Velocity, the one that once planned daring raids and captured rare booty, has overcome the pragmatic Depot-Commissioner. Now, she's only curious about the caper, about how this moron got his hands on the holiest of holies. “How'd you come by this thing?” is the most eloquent way she can encapsulate all her burning curiosity.
With that certain storytelling zeal he must've learned from his Grimalti mentor, Captain Nemo starts to spin out the yarn. There're no doubt embellishments, certain thornier areas are skipped over and Velocity would've been an assbrained fool to believe that nonsense about the natives declaring him a god of war. Velocity knows a spacer's story when she hears one and she's more than skilled at telling the fact from the fiction.
By the time he's finished, though, the Depot-Commissioner has no trouble believing there's an actual Gitterpeach tree aboard her station at this moment.
“You can imagine,” he starts to explain, flopping back as far as he can in the incommodious booth, “how much've a bitch's been, finding a buyer in this climate. I mean, the goods're as valuable as the Emperor's nephew in handcuffs but, you know, being the Galactic Menace tends to complicate things a tad.”
A million calculations go running through Velocity's head before she asks her next question. She envisions her criminal network, the favors she's owed across two quadrants, the costs of arable land, fertilizer, bottling distribution. She knows, even before the words come out of her mouth, that in order to pursue this endeavor, it would mean selling everything she has here and rebooting her life entire. “Asking price?”
“68 million,” he states without blinking.
“Is what Borsk promised you, sure,” Velocity allows, attempting to simply nod and wave her way through the haggling phase. “That ain't what I asked. I asked your asking price.”
“68 million,” he states again without blinking.
“Do I look like some ex-Consortium crone?” Velocity makes a show of gazing around the Afterburn, searching for something she doesn't find. “Does this look like some super fucking secret asteroid base, out in the middle of nowhere, where spice rangers'll never find me?”
“Don't see as how,” Nemo starts to demur, “any of that's my–”
Nemo makes no immediate reply to this. Instead, he crosses his arms and pouts, precisely like the naïve little boy he is and has always been. This gives Velocity the permission to continue her apparently much-needed tirade.
“Damn thing you got don't do nothing on its own,” she informs him, “'cept summon spice rangers outta the woodwork the moment you let the thing see the light of day. You really think,” she reiterates with a chuckle, “me or anybody else, for that matter, is gonna pay hand-over-fucking-fist for a useless little tree, when they've gotta turn right around and found–”
There's a twitch in Nemo's face. “Useless.”
“–their own independent brewery, someplace and somehow that the Gitter Consortium won't come descending down on them like righteous fucking angels the minute they hang up their shingle.” She takes a moment to breathe and to allow him his retort. When he keeps silent, she shakes her antlered head sadly. “You got no idea how much that'd all cost, do ya?”
“What price, then,” levels Nemo slowly, “would you pay?”
Velocity thins her lips a moment. “How's about,” she wonders, appearing to speculate, “21 million?”
Nemo's downright terrible at hiding his outrage. “21, huh? How very specific of you.”
“Well,” Velocity starts to explain, running her hand along the bottom of the table, “it's exactly one million more than I'd make, where I to hand you in for the bounty.”
Before he can react, she's placed the butt of the MI Model 77P Tattletale immediately before her on the table, its flanged barrel aimed straight at Nemo's heart.
Velocity did not often carry a gun. It was her preference to employ people who carry guns. She was once a murderer extraordinaire, back at the command of The Gyspy Laddie, and could more than find her way around a firearm. The Tattletale isn't her preferred pistol either. Her preferred pistol is smuggled beneath a hidden panel in Dujic's Holo-Ink Parlor but this little number had exactly the right specifications to perfectly fit Velocity's needs today.
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