“No routing numbers. No greenbacks, neither. Silver only,” he demands.

Never has Boonslick seen a more talkative bartender with a more colorful vocabulary. He pokes your chest with every syllable, delivering to you the firmest talking-to of his long life, his greasy fingers leaving marks on your windbreaker. Maybe because this sort of violence is rarely experienced. Too overt, too decisive for flatlander tastes.

But, as visitors, delegates from your shadowy benefactor, it’s not as if you’re worried about consequences. They seem to roll off you, like rain off poncho. That’s why you jot down the expense, one-fourth of a ruined saloon and an obliterated slot machine, listed under “damages rendered.”

You scratch the bar’s coordinates into your pocket journal. Its unorganized. Similar to the books you kept before your fateful kidnapping several months ago.

New Kankakee’s information is squeezed between two other entries. One, an itemized list of courier uplinks within Echelon Consortium space. The other, the recorded locations of the Cimarron and the Mr. Memory, crossed out, the old intel rancid and out of date.

Record of such on-the-job expenses will be delivered, post haste, to the innocuous transmission number the Old Man provided you. One with no corresponding identity code. It’s hidden within layers of private, corporate identities. Onioned in bureaucracy.

Like every other communication you send to your generous benefactor(s), it’ll be ferried up the shadowy chain of bean counters and clandestine accountants who, without fail, will deliver bullion, rendered in full, as soon as possible.

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“I wouldn’t either,” you admit. Maybe you’ve had too much to drink, yourself. Although your honesty placates the barkeep, his crooked scowl never shows signs of faltering, like the twisted fuselages against the flat skyline.

A shambling crowd has gathered to witness the corpse. Even if it’s only a disjointed and barely identifiable mess of organic matter.

Ø’s arm remains taught. She aims her revolver towards nobody in particular as she sits planted in the plastic chair, sucking down another beer. She’s unfazed by the pile of gore stinking up three-fourths of the joint, a carcass rapidly attracting flies and insects. For her, her gunplay is a show of inebriated force for any and all flatlanders within range, one she relishes in performing.

The locals watch with curiosity, tracing her black bodysuit up her scarred legs, staring with intent at the coat-of-arms slave branding on her alabaster sternum. Her middle finger twirls the revolver imperfectly for her audience, her shoulder rolling with every jerking revolution. You pray it’s not loaded.

It doesn’t take you long to rifle through the gambler’s pockets. Although you’re slightly more accustomed to bloodshed than before, you consciously avoid eye contact with the two-thirds of criminal that remains. From the scattered body parts, you lift a paltry sum of cash and a blood-stained key to one of the vessels parked outside the saloon.

The busybodies jot down the registration of your new ship as you embark, to hand over to local authorities. Whenever the system’s sheriff decides to stop by, of course.

And when he does, sauntering across the dusty roadsides in search of protection money, scowling along with his flatlander kind, you wish him the best of luck with finding you. The vessel is no doubt removed from most licensing tables. Unregistered, as most criminal craft are, licenses sidestepped with brief bouts of finger-pointing, greenback infusions, and conversations that end with, “thank you, officer.”

You’re fairly certain that even if registration is unearthed from the impenetrable mountain ranges of Echelon bureaucracy, the ship will not be registered to a Counselor Doyle Jay Lee, nor will it be named the General Authority, as the Imperial, serif font on each of the six wings implies.

It’s cramped. Dual-engine. Capable of blockade running, flying below anti-aircraft range, and effortless reintegration into standard intergalactic traffic. A beater, you surmise by the spartan interior, tidy and well-kept for its age.

Ø continues rifling through the aft storage compartment, one of three rooms in the tight vessel, as you toy with the cockpit. The good Counselor’s key reluctantly fits into the ignition and the ship croaks to life. Your mare returns, pounding a fist against unsuspecting walls, searching for hidden panels, her quest for alcohol and smokes coming up empty.

You spread the paper star chart on the floor, unfolding the outdated almanac. An analog security feature. One that leaves no record of transit. You prop the corners of the quadrant’s X-Y-Z table with a single bible and three separate books on gambling strategy, all four spines well-worn. Cursive graphite scribbles denote planets on- and off-limits, crimes catalogued nearby with specific dates and outcomes.

The mare’s rifling intensifies. Her hooves track dusty crescents on the unfurled mapping where she plods, her metal shoes tearing the thin paper. You dodge her as best as possible, the mare on a mission, ignoring your pragmatism, her combing taking priority over a speedy getaway.

She tears at the faux-leather captain’s seat, sending pseudo-cotton pulp into the artificial air, searching for a holdout canister or two. Something, any sort of consumable vice. As she shreds the chair, she almost misses the printing from the console above her mane. It’s sweaty, coated with a thin, dirty grime that makes it more sorrel than usual.

Out prints a string of ones and zeroes that collate onto the soiled, shag-carpeted floor.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

She stares at the paper, folding together like an accordion. To her, its contents are wholly unrecognizable. Semi-digital hieroglyphics. Flustered, schnookered, she tosses them to you. In frustration, she punts away one of the four books, Ludophilus hitting the metal wall with a thud.

It’s been a while since you’ve read such rudimentary script, and even longer since your mare has given the overt hint that maybe translation isn’t her strong suit. But, it’s simple. Something that always finds you, no matter how hidden you are. Another communication from your employer:

-- ONE MESSAGE REMAINS --

-- BEGIN –

-- SENDER: //WITHHELD//

-- LOCATION: //WITHHELD//

-- WELL DONE

-- IN LIEU OF CASH REWARD

-- DESTINATION FONTVIEILLE

-- TRANSIT UPLOADED

-- PERFORM WELL, MORE WORK

-- END --

Coordinates follow. A best-chosen route, automated for comfort, is transferred automatically, rendering your initial charting pointless. You dread what’ll happen next.

“What? No cash? Where’s our pay!” The mare bellows. “I almost got my tail shot off, and all we get is this scrap heap? What kind of job is that!”

You ignore her once, withdrawing from the cockpit as she storms off in tow. She feels your discomfort at her outburst, vibrating through her nerves, burying in the pit of her stomach. At her second howl, this time to spite you, she ejects an empty crate against the cargo wall, tilting the small craft, making it rock as it lifts off into the air.

The crowd of flatlanders has gathered on the dusty landing pads. Milling, chatting in the mere circles of chalk and stone. They grimace, their thoughts transfixed on your private life behind closed doors, away from their polite society.

Your thoughts, too, linger on the ship’s second-floor berth. It’s vee-shaped. A triangular bed, stuffed above the cockpit, accessed by the ladder you climbed, dodging Ø’s petulant tosses of scrap. Its parallel sides are covered in hand-spun quaddie quilties, fabric quilt sheets embroidered with simple pictographs. They’re two-tone in color, red on white, nearly pencil sketches. Each scene is whimsical and folksy, from the overly simplified mountain ranges and spacecraft to the saucy, bulbous silhouettes of cowboy-hatted and lasso-swinging babes.

Unsurprisingly, the quilts are clean, immaculately folded and tucked in.

But only for a moment.

Ø’s furred digits grip the ladder to snapping. Her heels clip-clop in tow, giving frustrated kicks against the handles with each trudge. An oblong snout appears at your feet, peeking into the compartment. Nostrils flare and contort, dilating with intent.

She’s ten minutes from entering pre-hangover. Time is running out.

Bumping through you, lowering her head into the space, she tears into the bedspreads. Fabric turns into a mare-made tornado. You stumble against the balled-up blankets, nearly falling backwards off the platform to the story below, the ship’s bow tilting upwards and vibrating against atmospheric heat. She chuffs, licking her lips as she uncovers a hardcover book beneath a false panel, one she’s ripped from the overhead light, electrical wires buzzing.

It’s a religious text. Blue, embroidered with gold. She studies its weight, nearly sobbing as she realizes she’s found a Pearl of Great Price. Shaking fingers peel away the cover, and she stumbles upon God revealing himself to Moses. Beneath the passage, excavated by pocket knife like an ancient mastaba tomb, she finds a cache of treasure; a miniature nip-size bottle of whiskey and a single pack of Keowee cigarettes.

She tumbles forward, landing between the bunched collections of antique fabrics, resting in the vee’s bosom. Her lighter, silver-plated, a Robichaux souvenir monogrammed with Matthew 11:19, lights just as Boonslick’s atmosphere cooks the bow, chipping off what little paint remains on the General Authority. Ash collects on a pillow, no ashtray in sight, singing its thin pseudo-cotton cover.

“Fontvieille?” she asks. She knows the answer, siphoning the information from your subconscious like fuel. She groans, “Great.”

“Ever been?”

“Of course not. Do I look like the kind of filly who’d pal around Fontvieille? You can’t spit in someone’s direction without getting arrested.”

“How would I know?”

“You know how. You’d see me dolled up in some expensive dress, losing at cards, sipping thousand-credit wine. A memory. Like everything else you barge in on.”

“Never had the opportunity, as you don’t exactly sit around daydreaming about losing money to slot machines.”

“Then maybe a nightmare,” she muses. “You never been neither?”

“You saw the Memory. I couldn’t afford to fix the bed. Why would you even think that?”

“Wishful thinking, I guess. Gambling is something. A hobby. Not like you did anything else except dealing with Dyle all day, spiked on spezie,” she scoffs.

“A hobby? Oh, like piracy. You’re right, I could’ve been running around spacing anyone who looked at me sideways.”

“Don’t start with me,” she hisses.

“While we’re talking about ‘hobbies,’ you didn’t need to destroy half that guy’s bar.”

“Shove it. You would’ve been shot dead, lights out, if I didn’t plug that stooge,” she complains. “I saved your life. Even when you nag me nonstop, I come out on top.”

“What, you think you’re better off alone? Look at how drunk you are. Constantly. You’re out of your mind so often you can’t even read the jobs we’re sent,” you toss the crumpled notice at the foot of the bed, as worthless as the quilts on which it rests.

“And you’re too much of a clown to do what needs to be done. Had it been your way, we’d be on Boonslick still, shot full of holes while that moron sat around and gambled away twice his bounty,” smoke billows from her nostrils, sputtering in your direction, “I get results, so don’t tell me how to do my job. Today I spaced that target while finishing a beer. Let’s see you do either of those things one at a time. Maybe then we’d have more cash than what I bring in.”

“Maybe if you weren’t spending nonstop we could relax, decline a job for once–”

“The jobs find us. We don’t take them,” she bellows, pitching the hollowed out Pearl in your direction. “You signed the contract with that old coot, not me. And maybe you forgot to read the part where they’re obligated to pay me when I shoot some meat full of holes. You know, instead of doing it for free?” She spits, teeth flaring with disgust. “And it doesn’t matter how much cash we have. Fontvieille’ll bleed us dry anyway.”

“That’s not what I mean, you’re–”

“I don’t care what you mean. If Fontvieille’s not comped, we won’t be able to afford the night. Hear that? We? You think I enjoy saying it?” Her shaking hands claw at the miniature bottle of alcohol. It’s glass, old, almost an antique. Maybe for a special occasion, you wonder, as Ø downs it in a single go. She snorts, glad to have another moment away from sobriety. “So quit acting like your front teeth aren’t plastic just like mine. You’d still be in Algonquin without me, and there’s no way around that. Rationalize that instead of policing me.”

Your weight is lighter. You’ve passed the atmosphere, into the sparsely populated blackness surrounding Boonslick. Surrounded by space junk that bumps against the craft. Inoperable satellites, jettisoned waste. You’re alone in the darkness, one visible through the porthole above the pillows, where the General Authority plods along its course.

You flinch. An empty, finger-sized bottle nearly missing your head. It’s whipped with frustration, glass bursting against the opposite wall with a nonthreatening pop.

“Hey! Are you just going to stand there and stare, slack-jawed like those Boonslick morons, or are you going to get over here? We’ve got a real bed for once.”