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Out on one-man recon. Searching for supply drops from the SFP's underground cajun navy and notifying the resistance units where to pick them up.

Slogging through the Louisiana swamp, not too far north of Grand Isle. Bit of mess. Definitely in the shit. The SFP's naval unit'd been bringing in bombs, guns, ammo, energy packs and resistance manifestos.

Making run after run in wee little speedboats that're too fast, too small to be spotted by Asterian Imperial Blimps. Some people say that Jimmy Cincinnati, back from the e-dead, is in on it too, running weed and weapons in from Cancun in his tiny yellow socialist submarine. But I couldn't possible comment on that.

The SFP pirates'd been zipping back and forth across the Gulf from Merida and La Habana over to secure spots along the Delta for weeks. Like little red-and-black dragonflies. Caching the hardware all 'round the Delta, marking it with our secret socialist sigils, then heading back out to Mexico and Cuba to get more.



Been in the muck for days exchanging fire with a Greek Occupation patrol that'd spotted my position. Local people'd been organized by the Ghost of Jude Connor to keep resistance units fed and lubricated. But pickings were getting thin. Catfish and crawfish were hard to come by now that the Balkan imperialists have taken over all the good fishing runs. Lately I'd been eating dirty rice flavored with scorpion and tarantula. Sure tasty enough.

Glad to be able to wash it down with a bottle of excellent Sazerac tho'. Goddamn. Sazerac. What an invention. Those crazy cajuns.

The Greek units looked even worse off than me. Pauvres ti bêtes. I'm sure their Ouzo'd run out by now. Whereas my Sazerac was flavored with a healthy dose of absinthe. So's feeling a little giddy as I put the gris-gris on them sorry-ass malakas one by one. Bang. Ha. Curse you. There's another one who's never vacationing in Mikonos again. LOL!

Anyhoo.

After things'd settled down after a bit, enjoying the last sip from my currently active bottle, I heard a 60's style synthy pinging sound in the brush not too far from my trench. Éla, back for more? I jumped up. Screamed "Wolverines!!" Was about to lob a few small bombs. When what to my wondering eyes did appear but a shimmery shimmering shimmer of light! It was obviously a transporter beam.

And...

Voila ma cher! Appearing amid the 60's shimmy effect, real as day, stood my old pal Bill Galaxia, in the e-flesh. He brushed off a few flakes of stardust. Took a look around. Spotted me. Shouted out like we were in Times Square: "RF, there you are you old whiny windbag! How's it hangin' man?"

Before I could answer, he had another question: "Say, brother. what've you got to eat?"



As Bill munched away on the last of my dirty rice, I pulled another bottle of that fine local Sazerac from my pack.

Just like old times. We were razzing and jazzing each other.

I'd missed the guy. He gets my twisted sense of humor. As we were shooting the shit, it occurred to me that the Bear Cavalry and the other resistance militias could probably use a little help from an interstellar bucaneer right about now...

Did I ever ask him about that? Recollections're a little fuzzy since we finished off dis entire supply of Sazerac.

Best I can recall is snippets. The conversations went on most of the night.




Something like...


RF: "We need ya' Bill. This is a bad one, the worst wipe yet. We need the old star runner. We need your magic."

BG: "They don't advertise for hackers on Discord. That was my gig. Ex-hacker. Ex-star runner. Ex-exploiter."

RF: "So imagine you're in a field in Silesia, walking along in the grass when all of a sudden you look down..."

BG: "What one?"

RF: "What?"

BG: "What field?"

RF: "It doesn't make any difference what field. Some field in Poland. It's completely hypothetical."

BG: "But, how come I'd be there?"

RF: "Maybe you're fed up with the lack of coordinated resistance. Maybe you want to be by yourself. Maybe you've moved your companies there to avoid giving tax money to the Croat bastards. Who knows. You look down. You see a tortoise, Bill. It's crawling towards you..."

BG: "Tortoise? What's that?"

RF: "You know what a turtle is?"

BG: "Of course!"

RF: "Same thing."

BG: "I've never seen a turtle. There are no turtles in space. (long pause) But I know what you mean."

RF: "You reach down and you flip the tortoise over on its back, Bill."

BG: "Do you make up these questions, Rob? Or does PQ write 'em down for you and send them across the trans-dimensional bridge during the high pagan holidays?"

RF: "The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot Polish sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over but it can't. Not without your help Bill. But you're not helping."

BG: "WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M NOT HELPING!?"

RF: "I mean you're not helping. Why is that, Bill?"

(They are both silent for some time.)

RF: "They're just questions Bill. Yeah, PQ sends them to me. It's a test, designed to provoke an emotional response. Shall we drink some more?"






BG: "Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave."






RF: "Nothing is worse than having an itch you can never scratch."






RF: "Bill. I've done... questionable things."

BG: "Also extraordinary things. Revel in your e-time."

RF: "Yeah. Nothing the god of e-lives wouldn't let me into e-heaven for."




BG: "I've seen things you New World people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Hello Kitty. I watched Q7 weapon beams glitter in the dark during the liberation of Florida. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain. Time to die."

RF: "Bill, you moron, you're just describing a little bit of ancient New World history. Of course I believe it. I was there. Well, the old me was there. You know what I mean."

BG: "I was quit when I beamed down here, RF. I'm twice as quit now."

RF: "We've got a lot in common."

BG: "What do you mean?"

RF: "Similar problems."

BG: "Accelerated decrepitude."





As we drifted off to sleep, I vaguely remembered I was going to ask Bill if he could help our resistance efforts. All I could manage to mumble was "Boo, dis one is de'pouille."

To which he replied, ironically I think, maybe sarcastically, "Oo ye yi! J'ai gros couer."



In the morning, he was gone. Again.

As it started to rain, I slogged on towards the next drop point.