Out front lairy builders had just finished taking the scaffolding down. Inside, a minuscule amount of sawdust still lay in the corners; it was the only detail - besides the builders - betraying the pub's recent construction. The structure stood a little way away from the main landing pad of Port Canaria's Bretonian Enclave. That was the place Bowex Trade Combine cargo ships touched down to supply their colony of Port Jackson, way off on the other side of the planet.

The Bowex Colonial Authority had purchased the Enclave (at the time, a small and run down second-rate landing facility) after racial tensions with local Corsairs had been aggravated by the Bretonian presence. Some say the Bretonians started it - others the Corsairs. Either way, a Corsair ended up with a bullet in his thigh, and two Bowex engine workers dead. It had to stop. The corporation had brought as many of the poverty-ridden slums around the facility as it could, forming a compound around the port. The Enclave served to segregate Bretonian settlers and workers from the local populace until such a time as they could be shuttled to Port Jackson. The Colonial Authority to this day is embattled in an enduring struggle to stop the various buildings from collapsing, and eventually even improve them.

This pub is the latest of a growing list of amenities appearing in the increasingly cramped Enclave. It had been in majority sponsored by Bowex, although the independent proprietor, Alan Howard, had put a significant amount of cash into the project, picked the name and still owned the venture.

The Empress' Legs. At first, Sir Maloney (Bowex Director of Operations at the time) had been dubious about the name, and asked him to change it. Then the opening hours had gone up underneath the sign, and all was well. "The Empress' Legs - Open 24/7". Of course, the sign had been accompanied by a picture of the Emperor of Kusari's daughter, ticking Maloney's (slightly jingoistic) sense of humour. Funding was granted, staff were hired.


The pub's opening coincides with new standing orders from Bowex's Board of Directors. Major convoys are to be launched to Port Jackson from Bretonia proper, at least once a week. The Empress looks to receive significant interest from the crews of the Bowex transports involved; traditionally the crews had been confined to their ships to avoid trouble with the locals. Now they were to be given a bit of relaxation and breathing space.

A sturdy bouncer kept watch at the door, happy to let all save Hispanics enter. The risk of Corsairs and their non-combatant counterparts kicking up a fuss and starting a confrontation was simply too great. A variety of Bretonian drinks are served, alongside more exotic local brews. In the main room's corner, there is a large screen, which while usually playing obscure Bretonian sports, could be hijacked by Maloney himself from the bridge of the BES - Victoria I in order to call employees back to their ships.

The police wasn't the only thing the noise attracted. A small pack of children skittered out from an alleyway a little down the street, all nine of them loping down the road like a pack of wild dogs, occasionally whooping or shouting. Several of them were dragging sacks that gave out a dulled metallic banging noise as they clattered along the paving. If you had scraped off all the dirt and assorted urban debris, they'd have each lost a couple of inches in height.

One of the boys, who could have been no more than 11, shouted something vulgar and unpleasant about the Kusari woman's behind as she scurried past, drawing a scathing look from another woman who'd been walking by on the other side of the street. "'Ere, Jack, that's where 'at noise came from." One of the grubby boys peered at the pub.

"Ye, looks about right. Got some good wood on'i an' all." They nodded in agreement. The children were also from Port Canaria's slums - the majority of the city was of good economic standing, but as in all free societies, there were those who were trampled to the bottom. Of course, these children were true native Zoners, having been born on the planet, as opposed to being Bretonian, Corsair, Hessian or even spacing-Zoner expats.

"Jack, we's should prolly kithe it. Mam'd like that wood. Could fix't hole in tha wall with'i." Jack nodded.

"Right, getcha bars out, we're takin'i all 'ome." The children dropped the sacks, revealing a motley collection of crowbars in various states of rust and straightness. Swarming forward, they attempted to pry some of the wooden planks off. For a couple of minutes, it was a bit hit and miss, until one of them got a purchase and prised her target away from the window frame. They worked for another 10 minutes, completely uncovering four of the windows and half of the door. There was the occasional grumble as someone got a splinter, or snagged their shirt on a nail.

"Psst, Jack, someone's comin'!" A few of them sniggered, but packed up their tools regardless. The girls took the crowbars, while the boys shouldered the planks and made to hurry away. Just as they slipped back into the alley, they were spotted.

"Oi you bloody pikeys! Come back with that!" Once again whooping and shouting, the children disappeared into the gloom, throwing insults over their shoulders as they did so.