Galactic Menace Page 3
Mustering what strength she can from her wobbly limbs, Moira does her very best to vault from her bed, as gracefully as possible. She instead clambers into the defunct medical equipment to her left with a clumsy clatter and only just manages to maintain her balance by clinging to them for support.
Voices from afar, somewhere at the other end of the infirmary, hasten her onward and she tosses the place as quickly as she can, in hectic search for the necessary narcotics. Finally, after several desperate seconds, she's got her hands on a syringe of the stuff, neatly labeled “narcotic plozine.”
Another several seconds is wasted, debating the best delivery point for her second proverbial spoonful of medicine. Watching the small army of medical technicians bearing down on her, Moira forgoes any semblance of decorum, parts the slit in the back of her hospital gown with one hand and rams the point of the needle into her buttock with the other.
She gnashes her teeth, staggers and props herself bodily on the edge of the nearest infirmary bed not her own. She wrestles to regain composure as her fast-acting medication floods and trickles into every corner of her body.
Moira rises from her slump. Her asscheek remains fleetingly sore as all other sensations of pain, tension or discomfort, gunshot wound included, increasingly drain out of her. Her entire internal system is left cool, shivering and equipped with a deeply, profoundly, nigh unquenchable yearning for a nap on comfy pillows.
She instead turns her body, step by step, toward the wave of oncoming attackers, clipboard in one hand and empty syringe in the other. As best she can, she attempts to foster mental peace with the idea of fighting her way across the entire breadth of the Surimiah in this condition, on her way to the bridge.
Sleepy as Moira might be, the prison break was honestly barely begun.
Chapter 2
Two-Bit Switch, a single point of life among the dunes of dead wreckage all around him, studies the blueprint more as an excuse to ignore her than anything else.
“Two-Bit!”
“Bloom me out, Gasbox.” He peels his eyes artificially off the spreadsheet in his hands. “I ord you the first time, alright? Don't wet your wozzers.”
In the dingy, flickering light of her scrapbarn, she's almost pretty. In here, everyone's face sports an eerie, greenish cast from the shoddy lighting. Shadows deepen in the depressions beneath everyone's brow. Like this, Gasbox looks furtive, understated, exotic. The natural emerald complexion of her species helps only to improve Two-Bit's perception of her.
In proper lighting, Two-Bit remembers her features as broader, flatter, less appealing. What's more, the cut of her scruffy mechanic's uniform wasn't doing her any favors either.
For that matter, neither was her perpetual nagging.
“Well?” She proposes, a hand to each broad hip.
Two-Bit flaps the creased blueprint aside. “Did you hank something, or...?”
The Moza grease monkey sets her jaw firm, smart enough to suss out that he was running her around but too angry to finger him for it. “We ain't friends, is we, Two-Bit?”
“I wouldn't describe our relationship as such, no.”
“So, I ain't gotta do you no favors?”
“Look, what're you jockin' at? I'm a little engaged at the present.”
Gasbox extends two stubby fingers. “Two weeks of back rent you owe me.”
He steps away from her and back onto his previous path, scoffing audibly. “Oh, come off it, Gasbox–”
“I ain't comin' offa nothing!” she counters, catching up the ambulatory slack behind him.
They weave a path through the mountainous heaps of junk, salvage and other mechanical miscellany that covers the working floor of Gasbox's unnamed scrapbarn. All that distinguishes this scrapbarn from a traditional, open-air junk heap is the actual roof over their heads, a shaky pretense that threatened to collapse atop them at a moment's notice. In all fairness, calling this place anything but a glorified dump was an insult to chopshops galaxywide.
What the tumble-down scrapbarn lacked in nearly every other amenity or accommodation, it bought back tenfold in anonymity. Crowning the sleaziest cul-de-sac of Qel Qatar's worst ghetto, the scrapbarn had the distinct virtue of invisibility to the outside galaxy. Each member of The Unconstant Lover's outlaw crew could consider this a quite salient advantage, at the present moment.
Besides, Gasbox had always proven to be a decent enough middleman, though she was quickly proving to be a less-than-satisfying landlord, what with her apparent proclivity toward getting on Two-Bit's nerves.
“I jabbed you about this,” he swears, circling around the deactivated reactor core of a TFS 283 Mercy-Class Transport. “I jabbed you we'd square up soon as we come back from, you know, our foolish venture.”
“See, and that's what I've been thinking about. Suppose nobody don't come back from this 'foolish venture' of yourn.” She pauses, certainly for effect. “Who's to pay my back rent then, smart guy?”
Two-Bit tosses a hand into the air as he steps into the shade of the Moza's still-dingier office. “Confidence, woman! I find that you are very much lacking in lollies.”
“Darn tootin'.”
Gasbox's main office, the central junction for each of the scrapbarn's four service stalls, is actually somehow messier than the main warehouse itself.
A smattering of ratty furniture – an expansive workbench, some threadbare chairs, a sagging sofa – is scarcely visible beneath the armada of dusty and deconstructed appliances, household and otherwise, that are crammed between the office's four walls. The aforementioned workbench is where they're thickest, but almost every chair in the joint is stacked with juicers, chocochino grinders and other kitchen sundries. The poor sofa against the far wall plays host to a disemboweled laundry mainframe, its mechanical innards bleeding onto the stained floor.
“Got gashouse news for ya, love. I think you might need to–” Two-Bit stops short and peers up from his blueprint. The room's only occupant doesn't turn to acknowledge either him or the derailment of his drifttrain of thought. “What're you doing?”
The hobnailed heels of her fearsome jackboots are planted daintily on the workbench. The glossy cover of the AccCo Bimonthly Product Catalogue masks her face. Moira Quicksilver remains characteristically unalarmed by Two-Bit's entrance, continuing to refuse eye contact behind her magazine. “Reading.”
Two-Bit's unimpressed. “Yeah, well, you're supposed to be unlagging yourself from them bracelets I gave you.”
Moira jiggles her boot's wingtip in a lazy point to Two-Bit's right. Following the line of her point, Two-Bit spots, fastened firmly to the side of the micne-smelted toaster oven he'd plugged in ten minutes ago, an empty multe manacle and Moira's wrist inexplicably missing from it.
Two-Bit's impressed. “How did you do that?”
“I have a trick.”
“You have a trick.” Two-Bit's mouth lingers open dumbly. “Well, what's that, then?”
“That would be telling.”
Returning his focus to the blueprint, Two-Bit acquiesces and continues his stride through the office toward the rear garages. “Have it your way.”
Moira finally peels back the corner of her magazine to pose. “You were saying? You think I might need to...?”
Allowing himself both a wry smile and a moment's pause to dramatically drop it, Two-Bit stalls a second within the opposite doorway to inform her. “Get shot.”
“What?”
Without looking up from his schematics, Two-Bit slaps the doorjamb companionably and exits the office. “Have fun, darlin'.” His smile only widens as he jogs onward through the piles of refuse, listening to Moira's shouted objections behind him.
“Two-Bit? What do you mean, 'get shot?'”
“Get your feet offa there!” comes Gasbox's voice from back within the office. Whether Moira's stone cold remonstrance or Gasbox's petulant insistence wins out over the other, Two-Bit hasn't the time, patience or inclination to find out. He, of course, wasn't above exploiting M
oira as a temporary distraction from Gasbox so he could potentially put a little ground between himself and his debtor. Besides, he's more important things to look to.
By Two-Bit Switch's count, they required approximately two more months of planning, bribery and rehearsal before they could take this gamble. As a professional jailbreaker, this would be Two-Bit's first attempt at intentional incarceration aboard and resulting escape from an Imperial prison ship midwarp.
Manifold tasks had yet to be accomplished. There were codes to memorize, tests to run, palms to grease, inventories to check and massive amounts of data still to collate about this particular prison ship.
Understandably, Two-Bit had little to no time to waste with Gasbox's over-eager demands. Just as it was the Captain's job to conceive of the stupid notion, it was Two-Bit's unspoken job to plan, prepare and execute his stupid notion.
This time around, the notion was a suitably flashy and suitably feasible method to get caught, get free and more importantly, get Huong Xo off their trail, even if only temporarily.
“Tell you what, Two-Bit,” Gasbox proposes, a trace of breathlessness on her voice, “you're unwilling or, more likely, unable to front all that cash you owe me? All's well – gimme the ship as collateral.”
“We're still chugging about for a buyer,” is Two-Bit's canned answer.
“No, the other one. The one you got sittin' in Stall D. The junker.” Two-Bit pivots to face her as she talks, to flash Gasbox the warning in his eyes. “The Whatever Lover.”
“Unconstant,” he reminds gravelly, “and I hink,” he surmises, facing forward again to consider the blueprint, “that the Captain wouldn't much fancy your wording.”
“Which part?”
“'Collateral,' for one? Not to mention 'junker.'” He cracks the canvas in his hands once. “Captain gets awful clingy as regards his gantine.”
“Your Cap'n don't scare me.”
Two-Bit shoots another glance behind at that. “You have bumped him, yeah?”
Ahead of Two-Bit, the slopes of scrap metal part to reveal a yawning service door, the barn's rear two stalls and a fresh junk heap. Arisen over the past hour and situated smack dab in the middle of the doorway, this newest mess is comprised entirely of machinery both minute, meaningless and handheld.
Squatting hard at work in the middle of all this carnage, like a toddler surrounded by Tyrotect tumbler toys, is one shaggy, disagreeable Ortok. In his clumsy paws, Odisseus agonizes over some cobbled-together contraption or another.
Standing apart and seemingly on guard in the doorway, billowing blue smoke toward the ceiling, is one blubbery, agreeable Grimalti. Abraham Bonaventure doesn't seem to agonize over anything but that gaudy, bulbous calabash pipe he'd fallen in love with four months ago at that bazaar on Bennevikos.
As Two-Bit and his annoying tagalong approach, Odisseus barks an order over his shoulder, demanding an unseen someone to “gimme.” The reply is confused, protesting and echoes off the thermosteel walls of the scrapbarn's unseen service stall.
“What? The 910s?”
Odisseus barks another affirmative.
“Got plenty of those!” the absent speaker confirms. “One sec!”
Two-Bit attracts everyone's attention with a snap of his blueprint. “Good news or bad news first?”
Odisseus mutters something about “always” and Two-Bit takes a guess.
“Well, as of right now, it vizzes like Moira's probably gonna hafta get plugged.”
“Is that all?” Abraham comments around his pipe.
“Yeah.” Two-Bit regards him. “What're you doing?”
“Supervisin'.”
“Incoming!” The disembodied voice warns.
On cue, a spinning hunk of metal whizzes through the open door and lands conveniently in Abraham's upturned palms. The crusty old Grimalti glances sidelong at Two-Bit as he hands the 910 in question toward Odisseus. Without removing his eyes from his own work, the Ortok snatches the offered device.
“See?” Abraham offers.
Squinting, Odisseus cranes his hairy head up to address Two-Bit with a request about “news.”
“Good news is, turns out them lifts they use do got those transmitters we want.” He flips the relevant swatch of blueprint around. “Vizz at that.” After squinting for several more seconds, even giving the schematics a perfunctory sniff, the Ortok allows himself a fanged smile. “Thought you'd like that.”
The Ortok's demeanor immediately changes, however, when consulting his comrade in the other room. He yammers out an angry order for a replacement part and tosses the 910 dispassionately to the pile.
“The 730-whats? You just got the 910s!”
Odisseus snarls something about his “mind” and “changing” before the voice capitulates.
“Don't snap at me. Hold on.” This is followed shortly by more mechanical shuffling, as though someone was digging their way through a junk heap until, after a beat, something audibly dislodges in the other room. A metallic clatter of a spare part avalanche, accompanied by a startled scream, resounds awkwardly from Stall D.
“Now, don't freak out,” is the voice's first disclaimer on the heels of the accident, “but like, a lot of stuff sorta, uh, fell on me? So, nobody should come back here for a second.” This is followed by more floundering and flopping in the detritus, during which Two-Bit drops his head to his palm and Odisseus rolls his eyes. “Hey, so,” he reports after a moment, “I can't move, actually. Somebody better come back here.”
A huffy Odisseus glares ceilingward and drops the device from his paws. He stomps off into Stall D, to the rectification and rescue of the first point on his impromptu assembly line.
“Is that him?” Gasbox, arriving expectedly late, questions to no one and everyone. “I'mana have myself a word. Captain!”
Two-Bit stops her short, interposing his body between the Moza and the path following Odisseus into the other room. “Gasbox, Gasbox, Gasbox,” he stalls. “Let's make a jelly. Whaddya jabb to, I don't know, first buyer's rights, eh? That sound jig to you?”
Gasbox scowls her benighted features. “No foolin'? I heard of your tricks with No Cock, Two-Bit.”
“Ancient history, love.”
“You ain't pawnin' no rattletrap off on me.”
“Take her if you like, derry her if you don't. Your call. Either way, you get your rhino first things first when we coop back here.” He makes a gesture into the vagueness behind him. “Let's just not tangle up the Cap'n, alright?” Two-Bit favors his least trustworthy contact with as amiable a smile as he can fake. “Sound savvy to you?”
The agreement doesn't come instantly. “Fine,” she pushes through clenched teeth. “Fine. Just, you know,” she waves a glove toward Odisseus' caldera of junk, “try not to make such a bloomin' mess, willya? Moons.”
Both Two-Bit and Abraham watch her take her leave – discontented, suspicious but placated, for the time being. Pretending to study his blueprint, Two-Bit waits a healthy amount of time, until Gasbox is clearly out of earshot and most likely halfway to harassing Moira in the office.
“Do us a kindie. Keep your peeps peeled, eh?”
“Think she'll talk?”
“Nag. I'm just gettin', you know, a sorta 'steal-your-ship-when-your-drawers-is-down kinda vibe offa her. If you take my meaning.” Abraham watches Gasbox depart unmoved. “So, like I jabbed, keep 'em peeled.”
“As ye wish.” He extracts the pipe with one hand. “Maybe I'm misunderstandin', though. Haven't we the coin just to pay her upfront?”
“Oh, in spades, me chum. Comin' out our beezers. It's just, you know, Gasbox's a bit of a shoveover, is all. The principle of the thing and whatnot.”
Abraham almost smirks. “Switch, ye corrupt fuck.”
Two-Bit's reply is cut suddenly short by the sudden sound of a second crash. Emanating from somewhere in the stall behind them, this time the commotion comes in tandem with an animalistic yelp that Two-Bit couldn't begin to translate, had he even the knowledge.
“Um, guys? Don't freak out, but somebody else should maybe come back here.”
Two-Bit Switch stands, listening to the best and muted efforts of man and Ortok to extricate themselves from a junkslide of fuel cell contractors and energy catalysts in the next room. He eyes the manufacturing blueprint in his hands. The crinkled plans outline the industrial design and overall deckplan of the HIN Surimiah's particular make and model.
Two-Bit wonders absently if his eyes might have been bigger than his stomach.
Two-Bit Switch spots Moira Quicksilver and suddenly has his worst fears about his eyes and his stomach immediately confirmed. “Okay, we're in fucking stook now.”
She snores softly, slumped against the room's main emergency console, naked save for her flimsy hospital gown.
Odisseus stands guard at the chamber door, armed with both MI Model DX2 Wreckingball Combat Shotgun and his doofy haircut. He sounds unenthused and less surprised when he grunts a question about “dead.”
“Not quite.” Two-Bit crouches before the slumbering ex-bounty hunter with a certain degree of timidness, as though about to rouse a resting cobra. “You, uh, hanging in there, love? It's me, Two-Bit – your chummy neighborhood slambreaker.”
Her eyelids flutter open and Two-Bit practically recoils. She appraises him drowsily before her expression contorts into the most unholy of sights on that flinty face – a smile. “Hello, Two-Bit,” she greets pleasantly.
“Listen. Moira.” Two-Bit jiggles the vest of reinforced body armor clasped in his left hand. “We gotta get you threaded. We can't have you bustin' up the joint in nothing but, well,” he makes a vague gesture, “that.” He climbs to his feet, opening the vest up invitingly. “Here.”