Unconstant Love

by Timothy J Meyer

  Flask mutters some begrudgment. Moira turns a glance to the Ortok. “Think you can stay, then? Keep an eye on the sensors?”

  Odisseus waggles his head. “Well, long as we're touched down,” he makes the point, “both of the boosters're in dire need of new conduit couplings. We make another warp, condition we're in, she'll overheat so bad we won't know we've exploded until we have.”

  Moira frowns. “Hm.” She turns to consider the back of Nemo's head. “Guess you'll hafta watch the sensors, then.”

  “And you'll be?” Odisseus wonders.

  “Checking the bounty.” Before the Ortok can object, Moira is raising a hand to quell however he might've phrased the obvious question. “We're too far from a feedanchor. Ship's comm package is never gonna reach that far. Just gotta pray the rock's not so deep in the woods, she doesn't have an orbital transceiver.”

  “Whatever,” grunts Nemo, quickly becoming bored of the logistics. “Anybody who's actually getting off, keep your fucking comms to hand. We get bushwhacked now,” he argues, “there's 65 million more credits at stake, you read me?”

  “Look who's,” remarks Flask, sounding for all the world like Two-Bit Switch in that moment, “blooming talking.”

  Rhav's tempermental clouds starts to whip past The Unconstant Lover's viewport as Odisseus, not waiting to hear the continuation of the bickering, spins on his paw and stalks from the helm.

  The conduit couplings were a lie, plain and simple. There were certainly parts that needed replacing aboard the Briza – moons knew those couplings were ancient – but they were in no immediate danger. Odisseus could fritter away the better part of an afternoon at Rhav's junkyards and scrap shops and actually spend that time more usefully, his mind elsewhere.

  His words would need to be chosen carefully. He would need to somehow devise a way to tell Nemo that, when The Unconstant Lover departed Rhav for a better hiding spot, Odisseus would not be aboard.

  He would need some way to tell Nemo that he was done.

  Moira can finally exhale, soon as she catches sight of Buckethead's targeting helmet, elbowing its way through the crowded marketplace. Considering Rhav's unusually high blueskin population, it shouldn't be much of a chore to spot one bright-orange Kelkian Targeting Helmet in a sea of aquamarine faces. For the past hour, Moira's had to keep a careful lid on her panic, fearing she's missed him and, by proxy, her window.

  Yet, all the same, here Flask comes down the street, Buckethead's unbecoming headgear masking his very wanted features from the Rhavian populace.

  From her hideaway in the shadowed alcove, Moira takes extra precautions to ensure she's not equally visible to him, scooting from sight the moment she gets eyes on him. There's absolutely no reason that Flask should be looking for her, much less looking for her in the seventh in a string of dingy dockside cafés that line the outskirts of Rhav's single spaceport. All the same, carelessness will get her killed and Moira Quicksilver is anything but careless.

  She waves away the attentions of the place's Prulish waiter with a dismissive gesture, all the while keeping an eye on Flask's threading progress down the thoroughfare. Sure enough, he comes to stand before a Bombaga heavy and the shadowed alcove she's straddling. A few words exchanged, Flask disappears inside an adjacent building and Moira is, figuratively speaking, alone again in the busy street.

  A smattering of crumpled bills, a shoulder shove to push past the Prul and she's free from the café, negotiating her way up the street and back the way that Flask came.

  As the planet's one serviceable spaceport, the streets are clogged with bodies, shoving and shuffling about their errands in this unremarkable little burg. The only people on Rhav are ragged Offchart pioneers and disreputables, seeking refuge on the map's raggedy edge. There's gravel crunching beneath everyone's boots and walls of white, stain-streaked composite closing everyone in. A dome of ordinary plexishild yawns over everyone, protecting all the spaceport's streets and pedestrians from Rhav's single distinguishing characteristic – the rain.

  There's nothing even noteworthy about the rain. It wasn't No'tiukki's mud-rain or Ebroc's acid rain or Artelse's reverse-rain. Here on Rhav, it simply rains all day of every day of every year, without end. The citizenry, those unlucky few who wound up scratching out a living here, grew more and more accustomed, more and more waterlogged, until they no longer noticed the tapping of the downpour on the plexishield or the layer of mud all over their boots and trousers.

  Moira wouldn't be here much longer. Moira is getting out of the rain.

  Through careful orchestration, she'd ensured that each member of The Unconstant Lover's crew – save the one – were all conveniently somewhere else. Odisseus is hunting down conduit couplings. Flask is investigating a lead on some new scramble codifiers. Even Moira is supposedly keeping a tab on the unimaginably high bounty on their collective heads.

  That leaves the Captain, the most wanted figure in the history of the galaxy, alone aboard the ship, utterly defenseless and prime for the taking.

  All that complicates Moira's plan now is where exactly she'd find Nemo. Given his mercurial nature, he could be lounging, moping, snacking or masturbating in any number of nooks or crannies aboard the ship. While he certainly wasn't anticipating an ambush within the Lover's protective embrace, catching him completely unawares was a vital aspect of Moira's plan.

  A single canister through the back of the skull was Moira's precise plan. Had he the time to turn, to anticipate the shot coming, even for a second, he would somehow – somehow – escape his inescapable fate.

  A young Moira Quicksilver could not have asked for a simpler bounty to hunt. There was no need for infiltration; she had every access code. There was no need for stealth; the quarry was completely unguarded. There was precious little need for discretion; the quarry was completely blind to any such attacks from this direction.

  Any other professional would agree – this bounty should hunt itself. Yet Moira Quicksilver, celebrated hardcase, somehow can't stop her hands from shaking.

  For months, all that stood between her and this one fateful bounty was the Gitter score. With her promised millions counted and awaiting her aboard the Lover, there was nothing to stay Moira's hand. She could collect a sample of dead Nemo's blood, decamp with her hard cash and disappear into the galactic woodwork, all before Odisseus could return from squabbling with junk dealers or Flask with scramble codifiers under his arm.

  She would leave their individual millions behind, Moira decided. She would even leave Nemo's cash there, for the pair of them to fight over. She bore neither Odisseus nor especially Flask much ill-will but she was wise enough to know that she had to put as much distance between herself and the bereaved Ortok as she possibly could with what little window of time she'd earn.

  There was the inevitable fact that Odisseus could come rampaging after her, willing to hound Moira to the ends of the stars, because of whatever mysterious and unbreakable bond the saltbrothers shared. Should Moira Quicksilver choose to go to ground, however, there was no exhuming her; there wasn't a trick the Ortok could pull to snag her scent and this she's counting on Flask to argue for her.

  By the time they could give meaningful chase, Moira would have her bounty and her winnings and be halfway to nowhere, with thirty-six million credits in her pocket and no reason to show her face in the greater galaxy ever again.

  From here, she'd head to Cylmia, the nearest system with any Imperial presence. Between the Imperium and the Consortium, Moira would take her chances with the former. The sapling in Garrock Brondi's hands, the latter was substantially less likely to forgive.

  The deed down, there were a dozen different systems from Cylmia she could slink away to. A few jumps later, with some comfortable distance earned, Moira would be in the clear – retired under thirty, with a queen's ransom to keep her happy and wealthy the rest of her days.

  As far as Moira is concerned, this is a self-fulfilling prophecy. From the very first day, when she'd yanked him from N
o'tiukki's grime, she knew she'd eventually claim his bounty. Seven years later, she is simply keeping that promise to herself.

  There's no need to bring emotions into what was simply a business necessity for her.

  Under a comfortable alias, The Unconstant Lover – now known as the Far Fetch – was parked on Pad Kappa, one of the score or more docking bays on the spaceport's western side. Soon as Moira arrives, she slips discreetly inside, sealing the portage doors behind her as she goes.

  Pad Kappa is more or less exactly how Moira left it. A soaring dome of plexishield and walls of off-white composite, it's one step this side of parking on a mud flat, with nothing more advanced than walls and a roof to shelter the spacecraft. Rhav's torrential rain beats a tattoo on the plexishield, drowning out Moira's footsteps against the gravel and casting queer, dappled shadows across the whole docking port.

  There's one crucial snag, however. The Unconstant Lover is nowhere to be seen.

  Her footprints are there; great depressions in the gravel that suggest where her landing feet once stood, less than an hour ago. Her scent is still there; Pad Kappa reeks a little of scorched carbon petro and rotten eggs, that specific sulphurous smell of the Briza Light Freighter's driftjets.

  The actual spaceship, of course, with the actual Captain – and the actual 65 million credits – aboard, is gone.

  With the fluid grace of emergency, Moira Quicksilver is yanking loose her communicator from her belt. In two quick moves of her thumb, she's dialing the ship's internal frequency. Fully expecting that he won't answer and that she'll be forced to leave a vox-recording, Moira is instead surprised to hear an automated droidvox on the other end.

  The frequency she's attempting to reach, the droidvox is telling her, does not exist.

  She stands there a moment, devoid of emotions, the nervous tremble in her fingertips gone. After too long a dumbfounded moment, she dials a different frequency – Nemo's personal comm – and is similarly met with another error message.

  The frequency she's attempting to reach, the droidvox repeats, does not exist.

  Moira lowers the communicator from her mouth and stands stock still. She's immediately hyper-aware of her surroundings – the shuffle of the occasional pedestrian down the corridor outside, the crackle-and-buzz of the hissing comm in her hand, the rapping of the rain against the plexishield overhead.

  She cannot tell whether she imagines or actually hears the whine of those jetboosters, incredibly faint through the rainstorm, rocketing away.

  Moira should buzz Odisseus or Flask. That would be the logical thing to do and she knows, in a moment, that's exactly what she'll do. For the moment, though, she can only stand there numbly, denying the idea over and over again that this is what's happening.

  He could have been captured, she reasons, or even simply attacked. Dumb luck could have allowed some other bounty hunter to jump the gun on Moira Quicksilver and force or spook Nemo into moving the ship. She wasn't necessarily made, she argues ineffectively, and he hadn't necessarily disappeared with all their money stashed in the freighter's hold.

  Moira should buzz Odisseus or Flask. Instead, she staggers a few feet into the center of the landing pad, like she'll actually discover what happened by searching around for fucking clues. Some idiotic impulse in Moira's brain causes her to gaze skyward, looking for the silhouette of a ship zooming guiltily away from the scene of the crime. In the process, she nearly crushes her one actual clue beneath a baby-stomper as she blunders into the center of the landing pad.

  A metallic sound turns her eyes downward. Amid a puff of dust, a slim piece of tech skips a few inches across the gravel, nudged by Moira's jackboot. Scowling, she stoops to retrieve the thing between two fingers, as slim as a playing card but twice as heavy.

  A few brushing gestures wipes the excess mud from an exceedingly familiar holodeck, the same one that Moira remembers snatching from the mud of another rainy planet seven years past. A thumb against its center summons up the hologram.

  It's predictably Nemo. Rendered in shimmering hologram, everything above the knees is visible and all the costume pieces are there – messy hair, leather duster, cocksure expression. He stands there, hands on his hips in a somewhat reluctant pose, looking straight towards Moira and presumably the holocorder.

  “Hey.” His greeting is as much sigh as speech. “Uh, wait.” He stops suddenly, dropping character instantly and scowls towards his feet. He stomps forward once with his right foot and pauses a moment, gazing forward like he's waiting for something to take effect. “That work? I honestly don't know if you can see me right now. Well, okay. Let's hope.”

  The Galactic Menace takes another moment to compose himself and places his hands back on his hips. “Hey,” Nemo tries again, with that insufferably smug tone. “So, I have some bad news for you.”

  Flask cannot believe what he is hearing.

  “Hey,” Nemo tries again, with that insufferably smug tone. “So, I have some bad news for you.” He extends both hands, his fingers splayed, in a gesture that begs his listener's forebearance. “Better to get the whole thing outta the way first.”

  The Captain's miniaturized hologram turns to consider each of the three people seated before him with eerie accuracy, like he'd predicted exactly where they'd all be sitting when they sat down, as a crew, to watch this. “I'm not coming back. I'm not telling you where I went. You're not getting any of the money.”

  Before Flask can quite have any emotional reaction, Nemo shuffles back a step, his hologram partially disappearing. “Give you a minute.”

  It's the braggartism in Nemo's tone that pushes Flask over the edge and into irrational violence. The glass has shattered, the Gitterswitch spilled, by the time Flask realizes what he's done – hurled his drink against the booth's privacy screen. Beyond that screen, Flask can see the bar's blueskinned patrons glance upward, scowling and shifting in their seats at the disturbance. None of them, management or otherwise, are willing to come back here and mess with the three dangerous desperadoes in the cantina's furtherest booth back.

  For their parts, neither Quicksilver – who's already watched the thing – nor Odisseus – an impassive mountain of shaggy fur – have any visible or audible reaction, either to the shocking news or Flask's sudden outburst.

  The minute given, Nemo inches forward again, peeking up at the three remaining members of his crew. “Not sure if this helps or hurts,” he stipulates cautiously, “but I doubt I'm actually gonna spend all that money. My share, maybe, but that's still way more than I'm ever gonna need.”

  As Nemo sighs and searches for the right words, Flask curls a fist and repeatedly reminds himself that punching the hologram would be pointless.

  “There's a file in the Attaché,” he explains, “that none of you read. That I made sure none of you read. Turns out, this was always a part of the plan. From the very beginning.” He breaks out another smile from his seemingly endless repertoire, the “helplessly benefiting from your misfortune” one. “The person you really wanna blame here is Two-Bit Switch.”

  Flask opens his mouth to protest but something about the silent treatment both Quicksilver and Odisseus are giving the news stops him.

  “From the get-go,” Nemo continues, like this is all an unfortunate turn of events regrettably beyond his power, “Two-Bit was fixing to pull this maneuver. To haul ass with the money soon as things were clear. Originally had everything all worked out with Borsk, actually, but that clearly wasn't gonna work now.”

  Nemo shrugs ignorantly. “Not too sure what he was planning to do with 68 million on his own and there ain't no way to know now.” He pauses a moment and his voice takes on a strange quality, far from his previously mocking tone. “That's who all this's about. This part and everything leading up to it. Been a thing for Two-Bit.”

  He scuffs his unseen foot a little, like he's embarrassed by the ostentatious present he's gotten his dead crewmate for his birthday. “Didn't seem right,” he admits, “to go through with ever
y other phase of Two-Bit's whole plan, what he spent years and years sketching out and arranging, and then just skip the grand finale. Cheapens the whole thing, I feel.”

  The Captain spreads his tiny holographic hands with pride. “That's how we all got here. Me making tracks, you scratching your heads and wondering what the bloom just happened to your money.”

  He smirks suddenly, his eyes landing on Odisseus. “Moira thinks she can find me. Ordinarily, I'd say sure. She's angry enough and determined enough to track me down, get your money back, make everything hunky-dory again.” He takes too much pleasure in waggling his finger back and forth. “Afraid not. Not this time.”

  The relish he takes in this gesture spreads onto his face and he smirks again. “Doesn't make much sense, does it, for Two-Bit to plan all this and then run off with the winnings without some kinda insurance that his accomplices wouldn't come after him? Nah.” He shakes his head knowingly. “Too clever for that.”

  A flicker of concern crosses Nemo's face. “Probably shouldn't say too much more, actually. Don't wanna give Moira too many clues. Suffice to say,” he concludes, clapping his hands back together, “you could absolutely come hunting for me. Were I you, though, I wouldn't. Life's too short.”

  His own words seem to strike something of a chord with him. “I guess,” he states, the idea seeming to occur to him for the first time, “we won't be seeing each other again. Had a couple more ideas, you know, for stuff we coulda pulled. There's a guy I know on Zycoon that's gotta sweet score, the kinda thing we'd be perfect for, really, but I suppose...”

  Nemo trails off, gazing around at his unseen surroundings. “Guess I'mana have the place to myself from now on.”

  His searching eyes carry him back down and he remembers, quite suddenly, that he's being recorded. “That's it,” he resolves, hands finding their way into the pockets of his duster. “That was my whole speech. Don't get captured, I guess, and,” he recommends and shrugs suddenly, shoulders hovering near his ears a moment, “see you when I see you.”