Chapter 1

They were rich. They were all exceedingly, astronomically, incomprehensibly rich. They had all risked life and limb, and some had lost life and limb, to capture a prize that had surpassed their most ludicrous hopes. Now it was theirs. The most valuable object in the galaxy was theirs.

This most grand treasure, this ultimate reward, was a resplendent little bauble known as a rebob. In form, it was a shimmering iridescent globe no larger than the end of a Human's little finger—an opalescent marble of sorts with a warm glow emanating from within. A prize that could easily be lost beneath a refrigerator or poked up a small child's nose, but which could also easily buy every refrigerator and every small child's nose on an entire planet. A rebob was the proverbial gravy train with gold wheels and caviar gravy. Which made Cap'n Lou Tok Greasly of the starship Incorrigible all the more annoyed with their current situation.

He and his sometimes partner, sometimes archenemy, Ratner Groat were standing at the accounts counter of the Whisper Fresh Carbonic Acid With No Fragrances Or Additives Orbital Star Port. Video ads scrolled constantly across the front of the counter, and behind it stood a female Human in an official-looking red jacket. They were all looking at the pod reader that held Cap'n Greasly's moola pod.

When they had read Ratner's pod, the meager amount of 47.1701 moolas had floated above the reader. Now with Greasly's pod being read, a cartoon figure was displayed. The figure's hands were pulling his pockets inside out and his face was pulling a moue.

Greasly plucked his pod from the device and sulkily stuffed his hands into the pockets of his baggy black pants. "I'm a little short," he mumbled.

He was referring to his lack of money, not the fact that his frame was a few centimeters shy of average for Human males. Nonetheless, a holovid popped up between himself and the blonde official and tried to sell him a remarkably inexpensive pair of knee extenders. Angrily he swatted at the video, but it refused to disperse until at least 15 seconds had played.

Greasly and Groat had been under constant attack by automated solicitors all the way from their ships to the main office. There had been ads on the floors and walls every few meters. Each time they turned a corner, the same sorts of holographic video billboards that Greasly was wrestling with now would pop up and tell them what great thing they were missing by not taking the other corridor. They had even smacked right into a corridor that turned out to just be a wall displaying an ad that looked like a corridor. It had then suggested they should next time call a Kratochvil nano taxi for a trouble-free ride enhanced by the homey smell of boiled cabbage.

The Cap'n's current ad attack gave Ratner Groat some time to chat up the official. "You know," he said leaning on the counter suavely, "for a planet named Utopia this place really sucks."

The official rolled her sky blue eyes to let him know she agreed and put her elbows on the counter bringing her round face closer to his. She hooked a strand of her brown-blond hair over her ear, then absently toyed with the shiny saber pin on her lapel as she spoke. "It used to be wonderful," she said eyeing his dark pencil-thin mustache. "Lowest cost of living in the system. Wide open spaces. Clean water. Fresh air. People came from all over to live here, and business was booming."

"So what happened?"

"They monetized it."

Groat gave her a sympathetic look with his chocolate eyes.

"By the way," she added, "it's not called Utopia–not any more."

"What is it?" Groat asked.

"This week it's HydroTuck Orifice Moisturizers," she said with a shrug.

"HydroTuck for short?"

"Hydrotuck Orifice Moisturizers is the shortest name approved for informal use."

He made an "ouch" face followed by the legendary Ratner Groat smile. The corners of his mouth seemed to force him to smile against his better judgment. The way it was accented by his mustache, and the way it made his deep brown eyes twinkle gave a person the feeling of being let in on a secret. A female had once described it to Greasly as a door opening into a warm cottage on a snowy day. In response, Greasly had vomited, though for unrelated reasons.

The official smiled back not entirely voluntarily.

Greasly finally managed to dispel the knee extender ad and stepped closer to the counter. "Look, lady," he began, completely missing the annoyance with which her eyes shifted from expertly groomed Groat to his rumpled self. "We really need fuel. We don't have enough to make it to Sol. Hell, we probably won't even be able to engage the Flitz drive."

Groat nodded his agreement in a "sad but true" manner.

"But we are good for it," Greasly said, "very good for it."

She sighed as she stood. "If I had a moola for every time I've heard that one…"

"Actually," Greasly allowed, "if I had a moola for every time I've said that one, I wouldn't need to say it now. But this time it is actually very, very true."

She glanced at Groat, who nodded. "You know what?" she said, "I actually believe you."

"Good," said Greasly.

"But it doesn't matter," she said, shaking her head. "They just don't allow credit here."

"I'm not really talking credit," Greasly began, but instantly three ads offering credit checks popped up between him and the official. His mad swatting was not getting rid of them so he started moving around the room to try to dodge them. Then he combined both approaches.

Groat took a different tack.

"I know you can't give us…what he said. But I'm wondering if we might be able to work out some sort of trade." He looked her straight in the eye when saying "trade".

Her expression became skeptical. "Do you really think what you have is worth two tanks of git-gone?"

"Well, they'll both put you in orbit if you know what I mean." He grinned.

Her hand went to her face. "You ruined it." She stood and resumed her business-as-usual stance.

Greasly returned to the counter. "Where was I?" He ran his fingers through his greying sandy brown hair, leaving it disheveled—in other words unchanged. Penny, his sensor jockey and current all-time favorite crew member, had convinced him to try to comb it before he came to this meeting, but that only seemed to anger it.

"You were not asking for credit."

"Right," Greasly affirmed, "I just want some fuel that I don't have to pay for right away."

"Sir," she said wearily, "I can't do that. There is no way for me to even enter that in the git-gone-o-tron."

"How about barter?" Greasly offered. "I have 13 cases of vintage Notable Raul Fission Chips. Aaargh!" An ad for Notable Raul Fission Chips had popped up between him and the woman.

She turned again to Groat. "We sell those here. Are they fresh?"

"Like new. About a decade."

She ran some quick numbers at a console. "I could give you 700 moolas for 13 cases. That might not get you to another system, but it would certainly get you safely down to the planet."

"Deal!" Groat said and held out his hand. But when she offered hers to shake, he instead kissed it. She withdrew her osculated phalanges and tried to give him a disapproving scowl—but her smile interfered and sent a mixed message.

Greasly's ad was finishing up. The jingle "Fission chips, the taste will glow on you!" played, followed by the ubiquitous tagline of all Notable Raul ads: The notable one himself grabbing his crotch and blurting "My nuts!" Greasly sighed and stepped back to the counter.

"She's giving us 700 for the chips," Groat informed him.

"For all of them?" Greasly challenged.

"Yes. I took it."

"But they're worth 750 if they're worth a thousandth."

"That's" –she did some more quick calculating– "57.69 and change per crate. Our regular supplier only charges 58 a crate," she scoffed.

"That seems fair. I'll take that."

"It wasn't an offer, sir. My offer is still 700 for 13 crates."

"750," Greasly countered.

"700," she reiterated.

"749."

"700."

"748."

"700."

"You're not doing this right," Greasly complained.

"If I have to spend a moola over 700, I just don't want them," she avowed.

"700.99," Greasly floated.

She sighed, "fine."

"700.999?"

"If it makes you happy. How many 9's would you like me to tack on?"

"Make it 700.9 repeating," he said, handing her his moola chit with a satisfied grin.

She turned to groat. "Is he always like this?"

Groat nodded.

"What's the vessel and registration number?"

"The Incorrigible. ICDX-F70."

She put together a quick exchange contract and displayed it to Greasly and Groat. Greasly saw everything was in order and spoke into the device. "I'm Cap'n Lou Tok Greasly," he said, "and I approve this contract."

Because he was busy verifying his identity via tongue scan, Cap'n Lou Tok Greasly did not notice the way the official's manner had changed upon hearing his name.

Groat, however, saw her face go blank as if her mind had been suddenly transported a parsec away. When Greasly handed her back the device, she did not take her eyes off of him, but retained her lost-in-thought expression. "Is something wrong?" Groat asked.

She snapped out of it and shook her head. Without actually answering, she put 701 moolas on his moola pod and handed it back to him. She spoke in the practiced tone of a non-attendant attendant. "The steward will take delivery at the dock and clear the hold on those moolas. Thank you for visiting the Whisper Fresh Carbonic Acid With No Fragrances or Additives, Fully Organic and Pesticide Free Now Available in Designer Barrels Orbital Star Port. We hope you enjoy your time spent on Hydrotuck Orifice Moisturizers For That Fresh Feeling All Day Put a Pep In Your Step with Hydrotuck Now Available in Designer Scents Try Cinnamon for Extra Verve and Vim."

An awkward silence followed, and not just because the woman was catching her breath. Greasly and Groat had to adjust to a feeling of having jumped the rails and skipped into another reality, so abrupt had been her change. They both turned to leave.

"What did you do to her?" Greasly asked Groat accusingly.

"Nothing at all," Groat averred. "She just went distant as soon as you gave your authorization."

"Maybe the boss walked in," Greasly suggested, then, "Fark!" as five ads popped up all selling the opportunity to be his own boss.

Chapter 2

"Welcome to Leavin's," Penny said politely. She was looking sharp in her slate grey v-neck top under an aqua apron. Her black hair was in an above-the-ears cut with loose bangs hanging wispily in front of the brass zipper that ran across her forehead.

The couple sitting at the table greeted her with affable enthusiasm. One thing that Penny appreciated about this job was that the customers were almost always polite. Sure, occasionally you got the moody artist type that just wanted to brood quietly in the tobacco fume chamber. But once they were inside, you didn't have to deal with them at all. For everyone else, you could usually count on at least a polite interaction.

These two were pretty typical of the crowd here. He was wearing lime green golf pants with army boots and a billowy pirate shirt. He slid the ancient manual typewriter he carried like a tote bag under the table and held up his monocle as Penny handed him the menu (hand printed with squid ink on papyrus).

This obsession with the unusual could be a bit of a problem. For example, after several accidents they had finally posted a sign out front that said, "For the safety of our customers, wearers of personal yurts must remove and fold them before entering." But at least working in a place like this made the zipper on Penny's forehead seem mundane and unremarkable.

"Is this your first time here?" Penny asked, her dark eyes sparkling.

"This is my first time," answered the young woman. She was dressed in a pink poodle skirt and a mohair vest over a denim short sleeved shirt. Her hair was dyed grey with a blue tint and in a style known to the ancients as old-lady-helmet-hair. "He was trying to explain it to me," she continued.

"I'm not sure she gets it," the male piped in. "Why don't you explain it?"

"Leavin's offers the best in Bohemian cuisine, or BoQuin," Penny began. "Leavin's celebrates the cast off, the underrated. At Leavin's we feast on the rind."

Impressed, the female raised her hot pink eyebrows at her companion.

"Our special today is crusty rice with apple cores and botched lobster."

"I think I'll go with that," the male said.

"Me too," the woman agreed.

"Can I start you off with a gravy-lined pan and some bread heels?"

"Do you have those cheese things?" the male asked.

"We have rubbery cheese butts," Penny stated as a question.

"No, these are crispy," he clarified. "It's like what's left on the pan after you bake nachos."

"Oh," Penny realized, "toasted cheese plops."

"Yes, an order of those."

"Have you tried the Parmesan cheese sheet?" she asked. "They are almost the same but crispier and Parmesan."

"That sounds even better."

"Good, I'll get those right out," Penny said. "And just so you know ahead of time, we have waffle nubs wrapped in pudding skin for dessert."

"Yum," the female said.

Penny took the order back to the kitchen. "Order up, Hank," she said as she clipped the paper slip to the aluminum wheel.

"Order up," Hank mumbled in acknowledgment as he continued carefully pouring the white gravy out of a skillet and into the garbage. His face showed great concentration as he plied his craft.

On her way back out to the dining room, Penny saw Cap'n Greasly shlump past the outside window. She had to smile at his trademark ragged demeanor. She had always assumed she would fall for someone polished and suave, but over the years in engineering school, she gradually lost interest in the overly groomed and instead developed a taste for ability and heart. She smirked inwardly as she watched Greasly enter the restaurant at how very far her outward appearance preferences had fallen. She moved to greet him with more spring in her step than she realized.

After a quick kiss hello, he asked, "So, you lovin' Leavin's?" mocking the slogan of the restaurant.

"Believe it or not, no," she confessed exaggeratedly. "I'm actually ready to leave Utopia."

"You mean Hydrotuck Orifice Moisturizers For That Fresh Feeling All Day Put A …"

Penny put a finger to his lips. "Shut this orifice."

"What if it needs moisturized?"

She helped him out with that, then asked, "Did you go AWOL to see me, or has peace broken out?"

Both Greasly and Cookie had been picking up some spare cash by fighting as mercenaries in a dispute on a moon, one planet out. Since the fight was being carried out by robotic warriors remotely controlled from a drone outsourcing center, it gave them flexible hours and a nice air-conditioned working environment.

Unfortunately, the pay was not that good and getting worse. Also, Cookie's enthusiastic competition was a bit grating since they often ended up on different sides and worked right next to each other.

"I've got the afternoon off," Greasly explained. "Someone saw a roach, and they're fumigating."

"A roach?" Penny asked, confused. "We serve those here as after-dinner smokes."

"Different kind of roach," he said. "Anyway, I was thinking you and I could do some shopping or something."

She thought it over. "Maybe. Let me make a call."

Chapter 3

Greasly waited about half an hour for Penny to work out getting out of work. That had been more than enough time to determine that not one of the puzzles on the place mats was solvable. (That was why they had been remaindered.) Finally she came out without her apron, and they headed off.

"Where shall we go first?" Greasly asked.

"I have no idea what there is to see."

An ad for sightseeing information popped up between them.

"Let's just walk, then, and see what the fine city of Ratzak Do-bags has to offer."

After a block or so, Greasly spoke. "You know, I should head down to the dock and see if I can wrangle up a job for the ship before the shippers' union runs me off again."

"Oh Lou, they surely know you on sight by now."

"I was thinking of going in disguise."

She gave him a look that showed she was not at all convinced of this plan's viability.

"It doesn't matter anyway," he said, "because I'm here with you instead."

She leaned her head on his shoulder briefly and gave him a one-armed hug as they walked.

"But if you see a good disguise," he added, "point it out. We really need a job with a decent sized payoff. This micro moola stuff is not going to get us out of here. You did the math on that yourself."

"I know," she admitted, "but I've heard they play pretty rough down at the dock. And I'd rather never leave if I had to leave without you."

In spite of himself, Greasly grinned. He turned his attention to scanning the street for points of interest.

"Hey look!" he said, "an antique weapons shop."

Penny closed her mouth, which she had just opened in preparation for saying, "Ooh, a boot sale!" Instead she smiled and shrugged. "Why not?" she said.

Like most of the shops along this street, this one was entirely open-front, having neither windows nor door, other than the metal one that was currently rolled up and hidden behind the banner that read: "From K-Bar to Ka-boom – Antique Weapons Shop."

"Clever name," Greasly called out to the overweight Human with a long grey pony-tail who sat behind one of the glass cases.

"Thanks," responded the bearded face.

"Great selection, too," Greasly added, fingering a half-meter long hexagonal tube that seemed to be filled with quills. It tapered along the length so that the sealed end was smaller than the quill end. "Is this a nest of bees?"

"Yes it is," the owner said proudly. Then added, "A reproduction."

"The only other place I've seen one of these for sale was the Harmer's Market on Triskelion." Greasly held the device out to Penny, who tried to look interested. "This is one of the first projectile weapons." He pointed to a fuse at the sealed end. "You light this and point the other end at someone you don't like."

"What kind of power does it use?"

"Powder."

"It's powered by powder?"

"Gunpowder."

"What?"

"It's a chemical powder that expands explosively when it oxidizes. When it explodes, it shoots all these little arrows out in a spray."

"Pretty," she said running her fingers lightly over the inlaid wood design on the sides.

"Pretty deadly," Greasly corrected.

"If you're looking for pretty," the owner said as he came around the counter to join them up front. "Take a look at this."

He handed her a bent piece of wood that was richly stained and had stylized lizards and kangaroos of a lighter shade inlaid into it. She took it and admired the workmanship. Aside from the markings, it seemed to be the physical embodiment of an obtuse angle—like a capital V that had been sat on by a capital O.

"That's a boomerang," Greasly informed her. "They used that on Hume 3 for hunting out in the bush."

"You'd have to get pretty close to hit something with this," Penny remarked.

"You don't sneak up and hit the thing with it. You throw it."

"Ah," she said, as if that made more sense.

"And if you miss it comes back to you."

"Uh huh," she said in the tone she used when she thought Lou was pulling her leg.

"It's true," the owner piped in. "Boomerangs come back to you when you throw them. That's why they call them boomerangs."

"I know I don't know much about pre-energy weapons," Penny complained, "but you don't need to make fun of me."

"We're serious," Greasly assured.

"Here's what you do," the owner confided in Greasly. "Buy the pretty lady the boomerang. Take it out to some secluded place and show her how it works."

"Yeah, Cap'n," Penny agreed, "buy it for the pretty lady."

With a sigh, but also with a smile, Greasly handed his moola pod over for processing. "You know, a guy buys a lady a crooked stick, he expects to get his money's worth."

"I'm always a good investment."

He had to agree with that.

The owner handed Greasly back his moola pod and thanked him for his business.

"Now you have to show me how to throw it," Penny said.

"Actually we can learn together."

"You don't know how to throw a boomerang?" the owner remarked. "It's easy. Here, let me show you." He took the boomerang and held it with the free arm pointing forward. Without further fanfare he tossed it the way you would throw an axe. In an instant it had spun out of the front of the shop and buried one of it's ends into the side of a passing van which drove off unaware—taking the boomerang with it.

"See? Easy." The owner said.

"What the fark!?" Greasly exploded, still holding his diminished moola pod.

"It didn't come back." Penny charged.

"Not yet." The owner corrected. "But they always do. I've sold that one three times."