Galactic Menace

by Timothy J Meyer

  The comment is made unthinkingly by Odisseus; it's not until his words seem to bear a modicum of weight more when Nemo hears them that the Ortok wonders if there might honestly be some truth to the idea. "Who says we won't win out?" Nemo pursues woodenly, as though merely to play the role of Jotor's advocate.

  "Frankly, me," Odisseus confesses with an honest shrug. "It's become a foregone fucking conclusion at this point that whatever stupid new notion becomes lodged in your brainless skull I'll go along with because I'm your saltbrother and that's apparently my blooming job now, but," his argument venting steam, Odisseus loses momentum at the sight of Nemo hollowly accepting the Ortok's anger. "I don't know. I'm far from prophetic, but limitless wealth, fame and galactic glory plus invulnerability? Somebody shuts us down somewhere along the line here." He stares a thousand zottibles into Starboard’s darkened cavity. "That much I know."

  Nemo's reply is unseasonably morose, his attention returned to piecing apart the strands of the safety belt with flicks of his fingernails. "Time will tell."

  Fourth Interlude

  "I have a theory and I'd like to–"

  "What's your theory?"

  "I'd like to run some statistics through your head and we'll see how sound my theory is."

  "Is your theory that I'm a stone cold killer with balls bigger than Wask's two moons?"

  "I have, in fact, a different theory."

  "Yeah, I'm sure you do. Theorize away – I'm opening these fucking nuts."

  "The Freebooter Fleet fell upon Kiesha Shipyards seven months ago. In that time, they ransacked eight of Valladia's ten ports, with only, at time of recording, Yime Orbital remaining. That's 210 days in total, nine ports attacked which, when divided, results in one port approximately every twenty-three days."

  "Oh, bloom me out."

  "Let's choose a random port. Adrog is the one whose numbers I've prepared. On average, the Adrogi Wet Market draws 75 billion in profits annually. An average day of business at the Wet Market sees approximately 241 ships worth of merchant traffic. The average wealth of the merchanters that patronize the Wet Market is, when all onboard assets are accounted for, is about 291 thousand per ship."

  "By all the tit-sucking moons–"

  "A few simple equations, therefore, determine for us that, between the daily wealth of the Market and the average wealth of a sampling of its consumer base, the Freebooter Fleet, assuming of course the sacking was fairly thorough, stole an amount of booty equal or greater than 70 million from the Adrogi Wet Market sixty-eight days ago."

  "I will spunk a live torpedo up your open anus if you do not–”

  "For the purposes of scale, that number's within a stone's throw of the GDPs of several minor planets. Greva. Wayside. Hivu. To name a few."

  "Why the fuck would they screw this on so tight? Shit's practically pressurized. Oh. There."

  "Now, I'm given to understand that every piece of plunder, from natural resources, to fenced spaceships, to honest cash, is distributed evenly between the five Captains. From there, it then trickles down into all the petty pirates and cannon fodder captains, correct? If so, the percentage of money that you personally receive is substantial, certainly, but nowhere near, I'm betting, those figures I quoted earlier."

  "Behold me. I am stronger than gravity. I am sexier than napalm. I am the devourer of spicy nuts."

  "Economics is the point that I'm making. Or attempting to make."

  "Spicy. There is spicy in my mouth. Booze. Booze for spicy."

  "You gonna survive? You might wanna slow down there, on that."

  "My tastebuds are gone. My tongue is going. My organs are next."

  "Spicy?"

  "No, fuckmuffin, sugary. These sure are some sweet fucking nuts. Gimme those pretentious-ass chocolates."

  "Economics."

  "Shoot."

  "Let's look at Kezz, see if we can see any broader implications. For Kezz, we're looking at net profit substantially larger. Richer port, richer rewards. With hundreds of billions worth of Kezz's merchandise and money out of Valladia's hands and into yours, the tables of the lumber trade are now entirely and, I postulate, irrevocably turned."

  "Fascinating."

  "About 60% of the raw materials recovered from the siege of Kezz have been fenced on the black market. With a small margin of error, the majority of the buyers haven't changed; the Freebooter's fences are reselling the product to Valladia's established customers. Easier, simpler and guaranteed to profit. What's more, the fences, either as an intentional power play or an unintentional side effect of inexperience, are reselling Kezz's loot at a significant undercut to Valladia's famously inflated prices. You understand what I'm getting at?"

  "Not remotely."

  "Means that the customer pays less, they buy more and, had Valladia even the merch to move in the first place, the market's flooded. Right now, lumber's so cheap on the nail that, when Valladia does replenish their stock, they'll be forced to drop prices to compete. The long term effects of this are, well–"

  "Tedious as shit?"

  "Possibly. Tedious, however, is not the same as trivial. These're staggering losses for Valladia Shipping, not to mention incalculable brand damage and very calculable damage to physical property. Remember, though, Kezz's merely an example. To truly understand how grievous a blow this's been to Valladia, you've gotta multiply those number by eight. You understand that we're talking about quadrillions of credits here."

  "I'm fairly certain you made that number up."

  "And you're aware Valladia Shipping filed for bankruptcy, right? Shortly after Prime was sacked?"

  "I, uh–"

  "You weren't aware."

  "Tell you what, no. Being a figurehead of fear and worship for thousands of aspiring pirates everywhere tends to blanket your schedule, I've found."

  "The contract they signed means the Imperium's licensed to bail their corporates asses out, which of course they did. Can't be seen to lose face so shortly after cinching the deal, especially to common rabble rousers like yourself, but the broader implications still stand."

  "I'm sorry. Not to interrupt your exceedingly boring train of thought but what, in all Jotor's jiggling moons, do you suppose this thing's used for?"

  "Taxes are raised, I'm saying. Higher taxes, taxes that wartime's already made all the more astronomical, have gone into effect across all the Inner Sectors, much of the Midworlds and those few Imperial bastions in the Ring, such as Baz and Nos Mantri. Some systems've have implemented food stamps, for fuck's sake."

  "I mean, one presumably lies down, what, this way? And puts their legs here?"

  "To wealthier systems, the strain of raised taxes is negligible. Places like Criia, Anglia, Medroteria won't feel that hurt. The majority of their citizens are either exempt from said taxation or, more accurately, so affluent they couldn't be bothered to notice. The further from the galactic center you deviate, the closer to the frontier, the harder and harder that burden, a burden which you, indirectly imposed, becomes to bear."

  "Oh, wait. Which direction are you meant to be facing? The position of these, uh, stirrups seems to suggest–"

  "Dubos, for example, made motions to secede, on the heels of this new taxation. This is, much to the Imperium's chagrin, not an isolated incident. Iogo, Ujad, even Prash's making similar noises. Digitwork's been filed. You understand what I mean, right, when I say sessation? This is the Imperium we're talking about. They ain't liable to, say, simply grant the wishes of those they see as deserters or claimjumpers. Means war, on each of those planets."

  "Who could find this comfortable? In all seriousness and, I mean, that's with no thought given to who's pitching and who's, you know, not-pitching. So to speak."

  "The point I'm making here, is what may have begun as a selfish action of personally-motivated revenge, you know, 'piracy is pointless', has spiraled out into this galaxy-spanning economic and political crisis, involving supply and demand, taxation and secession on an interstellar scale. The effects
of this ripple outwards, clearly, far beyond simple robbery. My question, I suppose, is how much of these repurcussions you anticipated or, indeed, were even aware of."

  "I frankly don't see how you're supposed to even maintain balance on this fucking–oh, shit!"

  "That answers that, then, I suppose."

  “Ow. Ow ow ow. I think I broke my assbone.”

  Chapter 17

  Two-Bit Switch shouldn't be surprised. Organize an Iniquity game between four of the galaxy's most feared and famous picaroons, one of them an honest-to-moons Trijan ex-pat. Grant Two-Bit Switch, proud player, the unbelievable chance to claim a seat at such an acclaimed table. Ten to one, he'll be dealt absolute, mind-bogglingly useless buhoxshit, hand after hand.

  Staring at the rogue's gallery of uncooperative cards in his hand, Two-Bit's forced to recognize the fact that, unless his luck begins to improve, he may have to retire the word “cardsharp” from his repertoire of impressive-sounding titles.

  “My concerns persist from our last 'conversation,' Captain.” Vobash clutches his own bushel of cards before him with a sterling lack of concern. “You don't happen to recall any of them, do you?”

  Nemo's scowling countenance is certainly as regards his own clutched hand and not any of Vobash's concerns, recalled or otherwise. “Not as such, no,” he admits, shifting about the order of his hand, as though position is proportional to value. “Somebody was busy disintegrating my jacket,” is his excuse. A shrugged shoulder indicates the garment he still wears, Dimick's handiwork apparent as ever. “Oh, bloom me out,” the Captain curses suddenly, slapping his hand to the table. “I'mana fold.”

  It was Nemo's proposal to color the next Council of Captains with a friendly card game. This was no doubt inspired by the crew's less-than-subtle aspersions about his Iniquity playing skill and Two-Bit, among others, was all too happy to take the Captain's money.

  As the game seems to carry the same weight with criminals of practically every description, no Captain refused the opportunity to throw down against their peers, especially in a contest that so ostensibly acknowledged both one's brains and one's brawn as Iniquity. To Two-Bit's surprise, even Aju Vog Xah Qaj consents to a few hands, playing through her laconic-as-ever ambassador.

  Cards are dealt, business is discussed and Nemo's irresponsible actions are further chided by Vobash.

  Charybdis' bald lieutenant, despite his assumed skill, comes to a conclusion similar to Nemo's own. Vobash, meanwhile, doesn't shift his eyes from his own cards as he reminds Nemo of his ignored objections. “I'm concerned with the number of privateers you destroyed?”

  “What?” explodes Greatgullet, always eager from an opening to repeat their routine, from across the table. “He bloom-near destroyed each one of those fucking privateer bastards! How could you possibly–”

  “That's precisely my point,” counters Vobash with icy remonstrance.

  “No-captured-prizes,” Charybdis states, its musical nature mangling her tone such that Two-Bit's uncertain whether the judgment he detects is imagined or not.

  “Even Captain Guspatch–” the ambassador begins to point out before a defeated Charybdis slides her own hand onto the table.

  “Afraid-I've-gotta-fold-as-well,” she agrees.

  “–made some effort to preserve those privateering craft within range of her commandeered turret bank,” the ambassador advances, heedless of the interruption.

  The original intent of the Xend's clever manipulating appendages was to shape the cud-like cement they produce by regurgitating chewed teltriton. It's therefore downright comical to see them grasping a small handful of Iniquity cards, antennae fluttering to dispatch messages back to its massive grubby queen.

  “You, for one,” Two-Bit finds himself snarling towards the ambassador with unexpected vitriol, “don't get to jabb shit if you aren't gonna follow the fucking scheme.”

  The Xend's startlingly humanoid lips don't even twitch in reaction, as Two-Bit imagines the half-second delay required before Aju Vog Xah Qaj, encased in slime and offspring, can process his words.

  “Need we remind you,” the ambassador monotones, “it was your Captain–”

  “Is-any-of-this-relevant-for-Adrog?” cuts Charybdis to the chase, her cards forgotten and annoyance crinkling her dark features. “Can-bygones-not-be-bygones-here?”

  “Regarding the matter of the prize ships, though,” Vobash dangles with obvious significance, still considering his evidently fascinating hand.

  “Yeah?” Nemo challenges, bracing his hands behind his black-maned head.

  “For fuck's sake,” carps Greatgullet, the burly Obax smacking both literal and figurative hands to the tabletop in frustration. “Valladia Prime was a fucking piñata full of plunder. Sure,” he grants, with a massive gesture towards Nemo, “the boy coulda maybe saved some cash by–”

  “We calculate,” the ambassador interjects, “his wanton destruction cost the Fleet upwards of sixty to seventy million in plunder.”

  The frankly cowing number does seem to cow Greatgullet some, whatever comeback or insult he had prepared dying somewhere short of his mottible-wide mouth.

  Two-Bit nearly takes up the duty himself, continually galled by Aju Vog Xah Qaj's willingness to flaunt orders on one antennae and dictate policy on the other. Considering Nemo'd quite specifically committed the same crime first, however, his counterarguments are rendered somewhat toothless.

  He does take special exception to the vilification of their commandeering of the turret banks and its subsequent spaceship shooting spree. Two-Bit's thinking, until this moment, saw that a fittingly fun reward for successfully planning the entire blooming Valladia Prime sack more or less by himself.

  “Let's say,” Vobash proposes, in a vain attempt to paint himself as the pacifier, “we make some effort to spare the privateers and merchants alike over Adrog?”

  Nemo would be making eye contact with the Triomman, if he'd deign to raise his eyes above the level of his grasped cards. “Why not?” Nemo consents, knife-sharp edge to his voice.

  Vobash both looks up and tosses his cards ineffectually towards the middle in one motion. “Excellent. I fold.”

  For a few moments, the game dissolves into confusion, each Iniquity player scanning their fellows as the realization slowly dawns. Each of the five Captains, along with those scattered few among the respective retinues who'd been invited or invited themselves to play, had, to a pirate, all folded. Among all seated at the Captain's Table, no one demonstrably remains to claim the meager pot three rounds of eventually folding players could amass.

  That is, no one remains beside Two-Bit and the inbred tragedy that was his own hand.

  “I win?” he mutters, displaying his Third of Truncheons, Fifth of Stilettos and First of Nooses, together creating nothing that even resembles a legal incident in the entire game of Iniquity, before his patch of table for all to see.

  Moira snipes mine after mine but the feeling of fruitlessness that follows each explosion is inevitable. The tripartite nozzle of her Antagonist conducts an airborne orchestra of destruction but Adrog's entire airspace is speckled with the damn things.

  Hunks of metal, harmless-seeming from even a short distance, hang thickly in clouds across the moon's atmosphere. Orbital mines are laughably simple shooting, the type of target Moira could zero with two fingers, one eye and half a brain. The head honchos of the Adrogi Wet Market, those responsible for suffusing today's battleground with innumerable droves of the floating explosives, quite pointedly understood the minelayer's motto, however: quantity over quality.

  Above hangs the shadow of Adrog's solitary moon. Below spans the planet's mishmash of ocean and atmosphere. The Unconstant Lover and her contained crew trailblaze through the explosive thickets all around them. All the while, Moira wheels her rig about in an effort to clear all obstructions from the freighter's flightpath. For once, Jargon's effectiveness is frustratingly equivalent to Moira's own, as it's practically impossible to lob a ditrogen bolt in
any direction without eventually colliding with an orbital mine.

  Some decent percentage of the hired help – namely the unfortunate Bumpy Ride and the unfortunately named Fresh Meat– cannot conjure the necessary skill to navigate the imbroglio surrounding the moon. Each Freebooter flagship, meanwhile, manages to cope with the challenges in their own way.

  The Eyesore, the unofficial name attributed to Aju Vog Xah Qaj's colonyship, simply expends its expendables, plowing Xendo divebombers into whatever mines it encounters. The Rule of Thumb, army of boarders straining the ship's life support capacity, dawdles some distance away, awaiting a conscientious corsair to clear the way towards the moonbase. The Loose Cannon leverages its impressive gravitons to actually toss nearby orbital mines at those incoming privateers fool enough to brave the minefield.

  One such privateer continues to dog the Lover's progress through the obstacle course of patient space bombs. She's occasionally visible to the distracted Moira as a blockish green blur. Incontestably, though, she's got balls to rival Jotor's moons and a brain to rival Jargon's, as the privateer flies with thrusters opened wide and bombard shields doubled forward.

  It requires ninety-percent of Moira's attention simply to clear a wake of passable space for both the Lover and, unintentionally, its pursuer to follow. She'd love nothing more than to teach this headlong privateer about the importance of ray shields with her Antagonist and see if she couldn't, with her own version of feminine charm, also teach them something about their own mortality.

  “Master Abraham,” denounces the Captain through the comm, “were you not instructed to inform me as soon as they've locked weapons? Does nobody want to hear my brilliant solution?”

  “I ain't bein' difficult, Cap'n.” Abraham's answer is equal parts perturbation and puzzlement. “They ain't locked weapons.”

  “Cap'n–” Two-Bit admonishes quietly.

  “Matter of fact,” continues Abraham, “if what I'm readin' off these system sensors be even a stone's throw from accurate, they ain't got none.” He allows the confusion to seep in a moment before summarizing. “They're unarmed.”