Galactic Menace

by Timothy J Meyer

  The most dangerous sentient in the galaxy shuffles five steps into the lovepod. He exchanges a quiet word or two with the decamping Ortok, takes visual stock of his surroundings and, with obvious urgency, asks the all important question.

  "Is there a minibar and where?"

  Moira Quicksilver does not actually notice the child until far too late.

  Forty-five minutes of inactivity had passed since the initial burst of violence they'd been greeted with. As a rule, Moira's hair-raised hackles begin to slacken at a rate proportionate to her desire for another cigarette. Before the child's arrival, the only thing preventing her from purchasing a fresh pack of Yellowtooths was the winking face of Two-Bit Switch on the carton and the inescapable knowledge that some percentage of her cash spent would eventually find a home in his pocket.

  This indecision meant she lingered too long before the corner cigarette machine and the child, padding with practically silent footfalls, snuck surreptitiously up along Moira's left flank.

  "Excuse me, miss?"

  Humanoid, female, approximately seven or eight, Moira estimates, as the top of the child's glowing head stands only as high as her ammo-strapped belt. Her wide, upturned eyes look bleak blue or ghostly gray, the distinction between them uncertain in the parlor's dim lighting. She kneads the ratty fringes of her voluminous pullover with partially-painted nails.

  The treatment she's undergone to bestow that radioactive neon sheen to her pixie haircut is, according to the fashion magazines splayed across the lobby's coffee table, normally quite expensive. Her's is outdated and badly in need of reapplication. She squirms something back and forth inside her mouth – a wad of chewing paste, a pen cap, some other piece of flotsam or jetsam that might occupy a seven-year-old's pocket.

  "Could I, um, have your autograph?"

  The lobby of the Starcrossed Orbital Hotel & Suites is, at the current hour, depopulated. Like clockwork, Abraham minds the ship. Two-Bit Switch reclines in an ergonomic nightmare of a lounger, asleep within ten seconds of seating himself. Odisseus stands persistent vigil over the nearest viewport, awaiting the imminent arrival of the lovepod and, in accordance with the Ortok's darkest fears, the corpse of his saltbrother.

  The carcasses Lefty'd lately made are nearly dissolved by now. The lone custodial drone tasked with the insurmountable task of disposing of both bodies is only now finally beginning to lag beneath battery loss. The triggerwoman herself, meanwhile, loiters before the cigarette machine and is surprised by sneaky children.

  The child's presence comes, then, as a justifiable shock. Moira considered her initial sweep of the main lobby's various nooks and crannies fairly exhaustive. Yet more shocking to any member of civilized society would be the question of why a hapless minor goes seemingly unaccompanied in, of all places, the waiting room of an orbital love hotel.

  Despite her instincts not to plumb further, Moira conjures images of a divorcé, here to ride a lovepod around the planet in the company of some illicit companion, yet saddled with their phosphorescent offspring for the weekend. She imagines instructions to "sit quietly" and "keep out of trouble.” She imagines the tedium of however long her parent's sojourn takes. She also imagines the quivering terror inspired by the witnessed murder of two sentients by the Galactic Menace's figurative left hand.

  Tapping keys into the keypad, Moira's precise with her tone. "You know me?"

  The girl's nod is instant. "Yes."

  The cigarette machine responds to Moira's selection with mechanical compliance. "And you still want my autograph? And not his?" She gestures her left temple over the child's head and towards the window Odisseus guards, though in clear indication of someone besides the Ortok.

  The girl's second nod comes still faster. "Yes. I decided you are my favorite. Greatgullet is my brother's favorite but that is because he does not like girls or bounty hunters. It's not his fault. He's six and dumb.”

  Within the cigarette machine, Two-Bit's cheeky countenance crinkles as the automated arm cinches Moira's selection between its servopincers. Moira scopes up and down the child's physique. "What would you have me signing?"

  This simple question flummoxes the girl. She proceeds to conduct a hasty personal inventory, in frantic search of some object worthy of Moira's signature and cursing herself inwardly. Unable to render anything, she, with eventual reluctance, extends her puny palm upward in offering. "My hand?"

  "That'll wash out, though, won't it?"

  With resignation in place of realization, the girl nods her neon haircut, apparently content to savor the memento earned from meeting her alleged "favorite" until only minutes before the next mealtime. That, Moira finds herself deciding, won't do.

  Moira nudges open the access tray with the hooked barbs of her jackboot. Reaching down, she snatches free the purchased cigarette packet with two fingers and a corresponding crunch. A moment of crass work with her teeth and she's torn the plastosealant away. A few seconds of manual dexterity scoots loose a solitary Outlaw Slim. This done, she grunts a hasty "Here" to the patient little girl and her patiently upraised palm before stalking away across the lobby.

  A casual glance toward the massive timer ticking off seconds over the airlock Nemo disappeared through would confirm that the crew of The Unconstant Lover were nearing the absolute end of their hour-long idleness in the Starcrossed Lobby. As she bisects the chamber from cigarette machine to settee, Moira spares an indifferent glance past Odisseus' shoulder and into Fwelk's low orbit anyway.

  Her instinctual efforts are rewarded. Evidently nearing and nearing with each passing second, Moira spots the approach of Nemo and Wezz's castoff lovepod, as the smattering of remaining minutes dwindle and die.

  The relief radiating off the stewing Ortok is as palpable as his homemade gumbo.

  Sixty minutes may sound like an inoffensive length for an interlude. For the Lover's thumb-twiddling crew, though, each unoccupied second that passed seem to drag its proverbial feet both coming and going. The lobby's swanky pornographic soundtrack clashes constitutionally with the mood of the room and its occupants – Two-Bit so somnolent, Odisseus so tense, Moira somewhere between both extremes.

  With dressings at once lavish and tawdry, from drapes of thick burgundy to verdant swatches of shag carpeting, Moira knew full-fledged brothels far subtler than the Orbital Hotels & Suites.

  The lobby's decor, a seamless match for the interior of the lovepods, also contrasts quite strikingly against Moira's matte black outfit and Odisseus homey orange sweater. Only Two-Bit Switch, sprawled comfortably on the sofa, seems at home amid the scummy surroundings. It wasn't difficult to imagine him patronizing a venue like Starcrossed with motives far less ulterior than those that brought them here today.

  Prudence demands she step gingerly between the caramelizing remains of the two corpses she minted. She steps circumspectly from toe-to-toe and is careful to avoid staining the recently-polished leather of her jackboots with the brown amalgamated sludge of orange blood, purple blood and cleaning chemicals.

  Whether the Triomman and his Fivvite paramour were amateur bounty hunters or muggers made mad by approximate celebrity, Moira hadn't known until sometime after she'd planted steaming hot ditrogen into their chest and mouth, respectively. No licenses found certainly suggested the latter, though, in the presence of the Menace, Moira supposed a fair number of ordinary citizens could instantly be converted into career headhunters.

  Whatever their intentions, the pair's enthusiasm with their own pistols went roundly unappreciated by Nemo and his entourage upon their arrival. The task of diffusing that enthusiasm fell, as always, to Righty and Lefty.

  The hotel's management reacted none-too-pleased with two homicides committed in one of their atriums. Upon realizing precisely who was patronizing their establishment this evening, however, they instantaneously abandoned any and all complaints about the cleanup.

  The beleaguered custodial drone voices its own mechanical misgivings at every turn. Typically tasked with scrubbin
g up spilt semen, its innards do their best to digest the gristly remains of both Triomman and Fivvite.

  Two-Bit's hooded denim jacket contains the sought-after prize, secreted away within his inside coat pocket. Her sleight of hand, perhaps, would never precisely be up to Two-Bit or certainly Flask's respective snuffs. Her gunfighter's fingers are nimble enough, however, to navigate around the unbuttoned edge of a sleeping Two-Bit's jacket without awakening him.

  The object of her search, his trusty autograph-signing inkjetter, retrieved, Moira ghosts several steps away. Two-Bit doesn't even indulge her a stereotypical sniff and shuffle to indicate that he remains quite firmly asleep.

  "To whom?" cues Moira once within conversational distance to the girl.

  "Um, Téon.”

  Inkjetter in hand, Moira hunkers herself down to an approximate eye level with Téon. Activating the device with a thumb against its pad, she sets to scribbling out a signature across her cigarette carton, specifically across Two-Bit's less-than-photogenic face. Incredibly out of practice, the resulting signature resembles less the words “Moira Quicksilver” and more a string of incongruous squiggles the girl could've easily recreated herself.

  Téon, however, is enraptured by the act and reaches prematurely for the packet of Outlaw Slims seconds after the inkjetter's switched off. With a single smooth motion, Moira plucks free the cigarette clinging between her own lips and yanks the carton deftly from Téon's reach.

  "Now, you don't smoke a one of these, understand?" she instructs seriously. "Next time we meet, I expect to find nineteen cigarettes inside."

  Téon is astonished. “Next time?”

  A clank and a hiss, one clamant and the other prolonged, is heard unexpectedly behind the airlock. This sound the exact cue required to inspire urgency in the indolent crew, each of Nemo's three present lieutenants come sharply to attention.

  Moira stands and strides, leaving Téon to contemplate the gift of her commemorative cigarettes. Odisseus, surprise to no one, reaches the safest firing distance from the still-sealed airlock first, clambering to pull his Wreckingball from its klutzy tool belt holster. Even Two-Bit Switch, either by the sound or by the approach of actual responsibility, is awake, startled and snorting. A moment later, he's fumbling with both his footing and his firearm.

  It's here – each with weapons extended, each prepared to mow Wezz down at first sign of any murderous trouble through the yawning airlock – that The Unconstant Lover's crew is reunited with The Unconstant Lover's captain.

  An onrush of fresh air flaps Nemo's coat aside. Without missing a beat, he stomps through the airlock's separating doorway and, with a brusque brush of the shoulder, storms past his awaiting companions. Moira's granted the briefest glimpse of Wezz, the hairless Helker wearing an equally bewildered expression, amid the room's plushy appointments.

  "Cap'n?" a groggy Two-Bit attempts gingerly. "Everything–"

  Making his grand exit, Nemo barks his final words over his shoulder, as much an afterthought as a command. "Fuck that asshole. I wanna blow something up."

  Fifth Interlude

  "Tell me about blowback, then."

  "Blowback? What do you mean?

  "Retaliation. Reprisal. Blowback. You cannot be serious in your thinking that the Endless Imperium will simply defend their remaining outpost, shrug their Imperial shoulders and cut their losses."

  "There've been reprisals."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as? Get bent, such as. What do you call the 4th fucking Fleet? Does that not constitute your blowback?"

  "That constitutes, in my opinion, a preamble to blowback."

  “I don't even know what that means.”

  "A preamble to blowback. The 4th Fleet's failed attempt to squash superior numbers with inferior numbers taught them a few valuable lessons. Among which is that a military victory, while the Freebooters is still assembled, will be a shallow one and secondary among which, that the Freebooters cannot always be assembled."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning, sooner or later, the pirates will disband. I mean, you know this, you must – what happens when Yime Orbital is sacked and everything you aspired to is accomplished and you're swimming in gold bullion? You don't imagine you'll forever possess a halo of suicidally loyal underlings to catch your ditrogen bolts for you, do you?"

  "So, wait. They send starfighters, shock troops, moons-damned capital ships after my ass, shoot down a fair percentage of my friends and followers in the process and that don't count as blowback to you? Where the farting fuck were you when the Imperium shot up my city?"

  "Your city? You mean Pirateton? The tent city of spaceships and garbage you've constructed on Talos II, that's ten times more a nomad's camp than a legitimate community? What you're not realizing here, I don't think, is how transitional this all is. Three weeks, Pirateton's gonna be a fond memory. Tell me you understand that."

  "I understand that, when Xo dispatched their reality show reboot to kill me, we killed them first. I understand that, when the Imperium sent the 4th Fleet to blow up my ship, we blew theirs up first. I understand that, for the time being, I'm the meanest thing with a dick and balls in the Outer Ring. Xo can't tangle, Valladia can't tangle, Imperium can't tangle with me."

  "For the time being."

  "Moons, you're a jizz-nosed prick. If not the invasion fleet they dropped on us, then, what do you call Ikoril Federate Station? Blowback's kindly compared to that shit. Truth be told, biggest fear I've currently got is that we'll roll up on Yime Orbital and discover the same mess."

  "Let's talk about Ikoril. I'm fascinated.”

  "You remember what I said earlier, right? That Ikoril was them and not us?"

  "I do."

  "Ikoril was them and not us. Ikoril was them gambling on which station we'd sack next, sacking it first and smearing us across the press with it."

  "When you say 'sacking it first', you mean...?"

  "Yes. Side benefit of framing me; they needed to make an awful lot of wealth disappear. Does that, uh, affect any of your fucking economics?"

  "You know, it might. Surely, though, that's not a secret they could possibly hope to keep for long, is it? I mean, security cameras, warp records, eyewitnesses?"

  "Faked. Forged. Murdered."

  "But the Freebooters aren't about to corroborate that story. I mean, ask anyone among the Fleet–"

  “You'd believe us, right? A buncha wanted criminals set out to sack a place, get there, place's already sacked, then claim innocence? Sounds sorta fishy, don't it? Fuck, we practically framed ourselves.”

  "Hm. Sure."

  "You bought it and you're an investigative fucking journalist."

  "I did. I mean, I simply assumed–"

  "Exactly."

  "They sure fucked you, didn't they?"

  "Gee, that must be the reason my bloomhole is so sore. Hence, my sitting here. To set the record straight."

  "To set the record straight."

  "As I said, my biggest fear going forward is that they'll pull the same shit at Yime and we'll be strolling onto another station already sacked."

  "That's the smart play, yeah, were I them."

  "How's that, you think, for blowback? Kill their own citizens, pocket the plunder I need to feed my troops and chip away at both my public face and my face among the Fleet at the same time?"

  "That's, well, that's going to be how they disassemble and destroy you, I imagine. I imagine this's a first step. The Freebooter Fleet's bound to disband anyway, I've said as much, whether from infighting or malaise. The possibility hadn't occurred to me that they'd starve to death."

  "Disassemble and destroy me? Listen, you hairless jagoff, the Endless Imperium's been trying to 'disassemble and destroy' me for, what, going on three years? Think, if they were gonna do either, they'd've managed something by now."

  "You wanna walkthrough, then? You're the Galactic Menace now, a position notable only for its no-win track record. Never, in the history of the Endless Imperium,
has a Galactic Menace evaded assassination. Vepane, poisoned. Eraser, executed. Ott, betrayed. Obwala, suicide. You think you beat those odds?"

  "I have so far."

  "You've been Menace forty one days. Lemme tell you how wrong you are. With this new step, the Imperium clears out Yime, foists the blame onto you, you're painted all the more provably a butcher in the eyes of galaxy and your legions go hungry. With Freebooter morale tanked, the Fleet splinters, certainly along lines you're already aware exist, and, without your buffer of bodyguards to protect you, the bounty hunters arrive."

  "It's not as though there are any historical examples of galaxy-famous bounty hunters fucking profoundly up in their attempts to take me."

  "Can we be honest here? Noxix was a fluke. That's abundantly clear from the circumstances of the alleged encounter. The difference between Ott, Obwala and you is that the former two constructed elaborate infrastructures around themselves, similar to your Freebooter Fleet but significantly more stable. That stability, an economy, a pecking order, that's what provided each of the previous two Menaces the fortitude to endure, for as long as they did, the Imperium's unrelenting attempts to make them a corpse."

  "For as long as they did, though. Isn't that the real pisser here? Ott and Obwala are dandy examples, 'cept they're both dead. I'm so different, how're the rules not equally different?"

  "Smart money says, within a month, an enterprising sniper inserts a canister into your frontal lobe from three hundred yards through one of your unsecured saloons. They collect the 10 million bounty or they don't, assuming they're the Imperium-hired hatchetman they certainly will be, and the IMIS finds themselves a new puppy to slaughter that week."

  "A month's not especially charitable."

  "'It is realistic.”

  "Let's assume, for a fucking laugh, you're right. Assume somebody slugs me thirty days from now. What kinda fucking article you gonna be writing then, smartass?"

  "An obituary."

  "Hm. And further assuming I've a personal interest in keeping my head pieces together, what sorta advise, you being such the blooming expert on the subject, would you give an aspiring young Galactic Menace, hoping to win big and shake the fuzz? Any way to prevent this inevitable fucking assassination?”