A small freighter is docked at Newark Station. It is rusty and beat up, and has the words "Haul Lass" crudely painted on the side. Onboard the ship, in the darkened interior, there is a roaring sound like some kind of broken power tool. The clamour is interrupted by the impatient ringing of incoming comms. A hoarse voice calls out in response: "Shutup!"
The comms rings again.
"Shut. Up."
A tinny voice answers in the dark: "Lights."
The lights flicker on, revealing a cramped sleeping quarters. On the dishevelled bed is a fat and very annoyed man. He shields his eyes against the glare.
"Bloody hell! Robot head, what did you turn the lights on for?"
The comms rings once more. The fat man punches a button on the console by the bed. The face of another annoyed man, this one rather prissy, appears in the small monitor. "Mister Peterbilt--"
The fat man sits up. "That's Captain Peterbilt to you, sunshine."
"Captain Peterbilt, this really will not do. You unloaded your consignment of scrap almost 24 hours ago. We need you to remove your... vessel... and free up the docking port as soon as possible. We have ships sitting in holding patterns waiting on you."
The fat maned yawns. "But I still have supplies to bring onboard, and repairs to make to my ship."
"Captain, I have it on good authority that your vessel is in as good a state of repair as it shall ever be. Now, if you would be so kind."
The fat man almost calls the prissy man a number of names, but instead just sighs. "Alright, alright. I'll have my ship off your precious docking port within the hour."
"Thank you!"
"You know, there was a time when you louts would throw out the red carpet when my ship appeared on your scanners. There was a time when you'd pay me to--"
"Yes, yes, I'm sure." The monitor goes blank.
The fat man grumbles and hefts himself out of bed. There are stains over the front of his flight suit, which he didn't bother to remove before collapsing into bed, and he hasn't shaved for days. "Robot head!"
The tinny voice answers: "Down here."
On the floor is the head of a robot model IGR-173, tipped over at an oblique angle and resting against a pile of dirty linen. With a groan the fat man bends over and picks it up.
"Why'd you wake me up? You know I ignore deck officers as a rule."
"You were snoring. Loudly."
"I don't snore. I just breathe deeply."
"I'm sure they heard your breathing on Pittsburgh."
"Smartarse. What time is it? Boy am I famished. I could really go a nice bacon butty at this time."
"You don't say."
"Well I better get this tub fired up." The fat man looks around, then sits back on the bed and sighs again. "Oh, robot head. How did things ever sink so low? I had it all: two Stork-class freighters, a snappy crew, a load of fat trade routes, and credits up the wazoo. I'd cart anything from diamonds to artifacts from one end of Sirius to the other, and I had the respect of my comrades and pirates alike. But now look at me: flat broke, my crew gone, and this old bucket of bolts threatening to fly apart at the Colorado jump gate. And nothing but a sarcastic robot head for company. Whatever happened to your body, anyway?"
"You sold it to cover the last consignment of cargo."
"Oh yeah. Faithful old robot head. You know, I'd send you off to fix me a bacon butty. Except you don't have any arms or legs."
"Or bacon."
The fat man sighs deeply.
*******
Onboard the Haul Lass, Cabell Overton Peterbilt III, a.k.a. Cabover Pete, a.k.a. various other nom-de-plumes presently unknown to the law, manoeuvres his ship away from Newark Station. His mood has improved since the events earlier, but only slightly, on account of the microwaved bacon-flavoured Junyo-soy sandwich on the console in front of him. The robot head sits on the console next to it, giving the sandwich a disgruntled look, and there are drips of sauce on the head.
Pete says: "Hunger is the best sauce, as they say, me old robot. Personally I prefer barbeque. Haha."
"I wish you'd prefer a bib."
Pete stuffs another mouthful of sandwich. "So what's our next consignment?"
"Pittsburgh boron is still fetching a good price... wait a minute, I'm getting a priority message."
"A priority message? For me?"
"Not specifically, it appears to be a general callout. But the message is encrypted, and you just happened to have the key buried in your neural net."
"No kidding... Who's it from?"
"Give me a second." Ones and zeroes flash across robot head's eyes. "Ok, I've decrypted it."
"Well? Who's it from?"
"An organisation called IND."
Pete starts choking on his bit of sandwich. "Well tip me into a bucket of MOX and call me a Flaming Corsair! There's a blast from the past to equal a supernova. IND! What's the message?"
The short text message flashes across robot head's eyes. Pete's own eyes goggle as he reads it. "Holy f--!" The rest of his statement is drowned out by a sudden clanking in this ship's structure. Pete grabs a large spanner and bashes at the wall, and the noise stops.
"Language!" says the robot head.
"Never mind that. IND! IIINNNDDD!!" Pete picks up the robot head and shakes it.
"But what does it all means?" says the robot head with vibrato.
"It means, robot features, that I'm back in business! If I play my cards right, I can get back with the best, brightest, most money-grubbing bunch of coves who ever set foot into space."
"So you'd be in good company then. Except for the 'best' and 'brightest' bit."
Pete ignores him and smacks his lips. "It'll take some monumental crawling on my part -- I'm not sure they've completely forgiven me for striking out on my own -- but they just gotta take me back. Yessir, it'll mean the spiffiest ships, the sharpest crew, some gold-plated limbs for you, and..."
"And what?"
"No more of this disgusting muck!" Pete throws the sandwich over his shoulder with a splat. "What do you think, robot head?"
"I think if I can get my new hands to work on this pig sty of a ship, then I'd be a happy robot. I also think you'd better reply to that message post haste, Captain."
The small freighter Haul Lass drifts lazily through the Jersey Debris Field, its peaceful ambulation broken by the occasional blast of weapon fire from its lone turret. One nugget of scrap is disintegrated, followed another and another. A patrol of Junker fighters slows briefly to scan the Lass, but then continues on, deciding that challenging the lowly pilferer is not worth their time.
"Bloody louts!" grumbles Pete, the Lass' sole human operator, from the weapons panel. "There was a time when every brigand flying by the seat of his pants would come three systems over to pirate old Cabover Pete. Now I can't even get a scabby Junker to drop out of cruise."
The door hisses open, followed by a tinny scraping sound. The robot head is dragging itself across the floor by its flexible mandible.
Pete glances at it with some distaste. "You know I hate it when you do that. It's just creepy."
"And how else am I supposed to get around?"
"I dunno... can't you sprout a propeller or something."
"No. Cartoonish powers are a little beyond my programming. It's funny like that." With a great deal of dexterity the head hefts itself up and places itself onto Pete's console. "Did you hear back from IND?"
Pete grimaces. "Yes, dear, I did."
"Well, what did they say?"
"I have to apply to their recruitment agency. Can you believe it? I have to apply, like some snot-nose graduate straight out of Cambridge Uni. I can just imagine it, my financial future being presided over by a panel of elbow-patch wearing HR goons."
"Doesn't sound too promising."
"Well, I was personally contacted by the governor in charge, that's one thing at least. So the application may just be a formality."
"But that actually sounds promising indeed! So what are we doing in this debris field?"
"We are here, my nagging robot, mining for scrap."
"I can see that. Shouldn't you be filling out the application?"
"Yes well... right after I fill the hold," mumbles Pete.
"You're procrastinating. Why? How hard could that application possibly be?"
"They want me to write a haiku." Pete snorts with disgust. "A haiku! What the bloody hell is a haiku, anyway?"
Robot head goes into dictionary mode. "Haiku: Noun. Traditional Kusari poem consisting of 3 lines of 17 syllables--"
Pete cuts in. "I know what a haiku is, smarty. It was a rectal question."
"I think you mean 'rhetorical'."
"I know what I mean."
*******
Later that day, Pete sits at the filthy table in the ship's cramped wardroom, which also happens to be the cramped sleeping quarters with the bed folded into the wall. There are five coffee cups on the table along with a piece of paper with a couple of lines of text written on it, and there are scrunched by bits of paper strewn all about the room. Pete sits back with his hands behind his head, clicking on a pen and looking sour.
The robot head scrapes itself into the room, bulldozing a number of screwed up papers before it. Pete rolls his eyes. "I don't know why you insist on using those ancient writing implements," says robot head. "Wouldn't a pad be much easier, and cleaner?"
"I like the tactile feedback," grumbles Pete.
Robot head hefts itself up to the tabletop somehow. "How's it progressing? You've been at this for hours, you must have penned a new branch of Buddhism by now." Robot head scrutinizes the paper in front of Pete, and Pete moves to cover it with his hands, but then stops bothering.
Robot head reads: "Bacon, bacon, the musical fruit
The more you eat, the more you toot
Give me money you sods."
Silence. Robot head says at last, "Yeah, that... um... really is quite horrible."
Pete growls and springs to his feet, scattering papers everywhere.
On board the Haul Lass, as it hovers above Newark Station, Pete is squeezed in between some containers. Some have their lids open, and various sundry items are strewn about the otherwise empty cargo hold. Pete is bent over and digging through one of them.
Robot head sits on the floor with a “Cambridge Raiders” pennant thrown over it. “Whatever are you looking for, oh Captain?” it says. A dirty sock sails over and lands on the head.
“Ah-ha!” Pete springs up looking ruddy-faced and triumphant. “I’ve found it.” He holds up his prize by a hook in the top.
“Just what we always needed,” says robot head, “a long, wide, flat plastic bag.”
“No, stupid, it’s what’s in the bag.” He unzips the bag and it falls away.
“Great Goddess of the Geode,” says the robot head, “Is that what I think it is?”
“It certainly is, my dear.”
“But it’s a... business suit.”
“Wash your mouth out!” says Pete. “This is no mere business suit. It’s a genuine taylor-made Bugleboy. One of a kind.”
“Hmm very nice, very nice indeed. Who would have suspected you had an actual jacket and pants stashed away back here.”
“Bah, what would you know.” Pete strokes the sleeve. “See that? That’s polycotton. Real polycotton I mean, not that fake crap you see every pencil-neck Manhattanite wearing these days. And the shirt and ties? Pure silk.”
“But how and why in Sirius would you own such a quality garment? I mean, look at you. You might as well hang a kimono on a Rhino.”
“Never mind how or why, tin face. It just is.” Pete looks at the suit proudly. “The plan was to wear this suit if I was ever to be a bridegroom. Or a defendant. Not that there’s much difference, haha!”
“I must say, I am impressed. But why have you gone to all this trouble to drag it out now? Oh...” Robot head looks embarrassed, then rather sad. “I’m sorry. Well, it should fetch a good price.”
“What?” Pete’s eyes goggle. “Wash your mouth out a second time, head! I’d part with my own liver before I part with this suit. No, no, it’s all part of my plan.”
“What plan?”
“I’ve come to a realisation. If I’m to be accepted into IND, or to be any kind of success, then I must stop being a plonker and start being a punter. I must stop being a plodder and start being a shaker. Stop being a trot and start being toff.”
“None of those words are in my dictionary,” says robot head.
“It means, binary brain, that I must stop thinking like a grimy freighter captain, and start thinking like an entrepren-ewer. And it all starts right here.” Pete regards the suit proudly once more.
*******
Robot head is sitting on the helm panel of the Haul Lass. The door hisses open and in walks Pete.
“At last!” says robot head. “We’ve been doing nothing but drifting here for hours. What have you been up to?”
“Plotting and scheming, my tinny chum, plotting and scheming. All right, everything’s set. We’re off to Kusari.”
“Kusari, huh. Any particular reason?”
“Business.”
“Ok then, Kusari it is. Should we go via Kepler or Galileo?”
“Neither. We’re going via the Taus.”
“The Taus? But that’s so far out of the way. What are we going there for?”
“We need to make a little stopover, to see a man about the... thing.”
“Gods, I hate it when you’re secretive,” says robot head. “But you do realise that to get to the Taus we must go through Kusari anyway? We’d be backtracking across half of Sirius.”
“Yes, if we go the long way round. But I happened across a man who happened across a little course which will get us from Magellan to Leeds, and from there to the Taus, lickety-split.”
“Ah, I hate to tell you this, Captain, but your geopolitics is a tad out of date. There’s the small matter of the Leeds invasion. The last I heard the whole system is under the control of the Gallic Navy, and they have a strict ‘shoot everything’ policy.”
Pete’s face turns red at being reminded. “Don’t believe everything to hear, bucket head. Don’t worry, we’ll be all right.”
“No,” says robot head looking really scared, “I honestly think you should reconsider this route. Better late than dead.”
“Eris’ tits, I said everything’s under control! Now set course for Magellan, dammit, before I have you hollowed out and converted into a peddle bin.”
The robot head sighs profoundly. “Shall we at least take a consignment of cargo? Might as well make this fool’s errand slightly worth while, and give the impression that we're honest traders.”
“No,” says Pete, “we don’t have time to bother with a cargo run. Besides, we don’t wanna be poncing about with a lot of extra tonnage if we need to make a quick getaway.”
Pete moves back to the door, leaving robot head grumbling to itself. “In the meantime,” he says, “I need to go spruce myself up and make a little video recording. But first, I think I’ll check on the weapons banks.”
Onboard the Haul Lass, the robot head's tinny voice rings out over the comms: "Hello Captain? We've just docked with Freeport 4, as you ordered." It sounded a little bitter.
Pete enters the cockpit and bends over the con. Robot head looks momentarily stunned. "Why Captain! You've showered and shaved. And is that a clean flight suit you're wearing? You look almost respectable. You have a little important business with the IMG?"
Pete grunts. Another gruff voice comes over the comms: "Operator Peterbilt? Freeport 4 loading dock. We have your cargo as ordered, ready to be loaded. All that's required is payment."
"All right," Pete answers, "I'll be right down." He skips out of the cockpit before robot head can say anything.
A couple of hours later Pete re-enter the cockpit. Robot head is flabbergasted; Pete isn't wearing his normal dun-coloured jump suit. Instead he wears the trousers, shirt and jacket favoured by off-worlders, freelancers and other assorted adventurers. He is also wearing a sidearm belted around his waist, although it strains against the last belt hole.
"I have to admit, Captain," says robot head at last, "you almost cut a dashing, if rotund, figure."
"Thanks," says Pete drily.
"No, I mean it," says robot head. "First a spiffing designer suit, and now this rakish ensemble. I assume it represents the 'cargo' you had 'ordered', as I distinctly remember you saying we weren't taking on cargo for this... mission. And it must have taken the IMG tailors a long time to let pants out, because I cannot imagine anything else that could have detained you for so long."
"All right, smart-alec," snaps Pete. "As I'm sure you've surmised, we have taken on cargo. And before you ask, never mind what it is or whether it will slow us down. We won't have it for very long. As for my appearance... it's all part of the plan, and that's all I shall say about it."
"Which brings me to my next point," says robot head gravely. "Are you still determined to lumber headlong into Gallic controlled space?"
"Yes."
Robot head sighs. "I thought so. I have but two questions."
"What are they?"
"Where in Sirius did you get the money for a load military-grade munitions, and which way are we headed?"
Pete looks sharply at robot head. "Nothing gets past your tinny gaze, does it?" he says. "To answer your first question: There are certain parties in this galaxy who will impart credit to 'high risk, low capital ventures'. Just be thankful they didn't break my legs in advance."
Robot head rolls its eyes.
"To answer your second question," Pete continues, "We head out on a two-two-five vector. South-west in the old parlance."
"How far?", says robot head.
"We'll know when we get there."
*******
Pete stares out through the Haul Lass' windshield, drumming his fingers atop the con. Freeport 4 is a distant speck behind them, while the Bretonia-half of the Barrier ice field looms in front, ready to envelop the tiny ship and all in it.
"How much farther?" says robot head, who is similarly staring at the expanse. "We'll be evading rocks before long."
"Not far."
"We've been lucky thus far," says robot head.
"Yeah," says Pete. "I expected to have to fight off a smelly Rogue raiding party at least. What I didn't expect was a Liberty Navy patrol. Those caffeinated apes are getting bold, crossing over to the Bretonia side of Magellan."
"I'm just thankful they didn't scan what's in our hold."
"Wouldn't make a ruddy speck of difference if they did. They're way out of their jurisdiction," says Pete, although he didn't sound too confident about it. He drums his fingers some more, as the first icy outliers of the Barrier field bounce off the ship's shields. "Ah, me old robot, once again we're witness to things going to hell--"
An alarm sounds on the con. "We're coming up on a gravimetric distortion," says robot head.
"That's it!" says Pete. "Looks like that feller wasn't just blowing smoke after all." A red swirly ring in space, the unmistakable sign of a jumphole, hove into view. "There it is! The hidden Leeds jumphole. Set course, robot head, we're diving in."
*******
The Haul Lass emerges from the jumphole into a huge cloud of sickly brown smog. It is so thick that it blocks everything from view, all except the sun which is a dirty smear against the gloom.
"Well, this is Leeds all right," says Pete wryly. "Now I remember why I never liked coming here."
"Where are we exactly?" says robot head.
"If that feller was right, we should in the smoke cloud just behind Planet Leeds."
"Just behind Leeds? And shockingly close to Gallic Navy blockade, I’ll wager" says robot head depressingly.
"That's the bad news," says Pete. "The good news is, this wonderful smog should shield us from their scanners. So we'll head away from Leeds, and the Gallic Navy, out towards the New London jumpgate, until we reach the edge of the cloud. Then we'll hook 90-degrees and head to the even bigger smog cloud out towards Edinburgh. I tell ya, tinface, I've never been so glad for pollution in my life."
"A sound plan," says robot head, "except for the rather large stretch of open space between the life-saving concealment of your two smog clouds."
"Yes, well, that's the other bad news. But as my old school soccer coach used to say, we'll just have to hope for the best. If we can get half-way between rings in the Leeds-New London tradelane, we should be ok. Assuming the Frogs haven't moved too many things around. Don't worry, iron rod, Fortune has been kind thus far."
"And when we cross into the second cloud, what then?"
"That's our rendezvous," says Pete. "Right, enough lip-flapping. Set course and punch cruise engines, if you'd be so kind, me old bucket head."
*******
After many hours the Haul Lass emerges from the first smog cloud. Suddenly the Leeds system sun burst forth, blinding Pete momentarily, and then everything was crystal clear. "Look at that, robot head" he says. Planet Leeds is a peaceful orb hanging in the distance, backdropped against the Stokes mining field some ways behind it. "You wouldn't even know anything was amiss."
There is a tiny flash of light on the planet, a pinprick illuminating the surface. Like an ember it flares for a few seconds, and then goes dark. "The last resistance," mumbles Pete. "Poor, hopeless bastards."
The Lass continues in open space for a few minutes. "All right," says Pete, "enough of this moping. Set heading to the other cloud--"
An alarm sounds on the con. "Ships closing in," says robot worriedly. "Four fighter craft, heavily armed, unknown designation."
"Oh I think we can confidently guess what designation they are," says Pete darkly as the fighters take flanking posiitions behind the Lass.
A harsh, thickly-accented voice booms over the comms. "Attention! Foreign vessel, this is the Royal Gallic Navy. You are in violation of restricted space. By order of the emergency powers enacted by His Majesty, you are to be taken into custody and your ship impounded while your presence here is investigated. Cut your engines and prepare to be boarded."
"I think our luck just ran out," says robot head.
"Look on the bright side, " says Pete, "at least they aren't shooting at us." He then assumes a faux accent and yells into the comms. "Hullo, Navee ships! Zis is freighter... er... René. Ah am carrying food and supplies for the brave men of the Leeds invasion force--"
"Foreign vessel, this is your final warning. You will comply with our orders at once, or you will be fired upon."
"Er... Navee ships, no comprenday... ah... must deliver supplies by order of Generale, er, Francois. He is very angry if ‘e doesn’t get ‘is cigars..." At this point Pete turns the Lass about and aims headlong into the pursuing fighters, causing them to bank wildly and scattering them.
"Attention! Foreign vessel, you are hereby subject to immediate termination. Men, to arms!"
“Shields down to 90%,” said Pete as he ducked and weaved the Lass amid the Gallics’ weapons fire. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. “This next bit will hurt more. Engaging cruise engines.”
“What?” said robot head. “I thought we were giving ourselves up!”
There was a whine deep in the Lass as the cruise engines began spinning up. The ship lurched as it lost forward momentum, all power being drained to engage cruise, and leaving the Lass slow and vulnerable for a few crucial moments.
“Not a chance.” Pete glowered at robot head. “Of course, we wouldn't be in this pickle if some dumb schmuck hadn't disengaged cruise in the first place."
“But we'd been caught by a Navy patrol!" protested the head. "The jig was up, and I naturally assumed we were surrendering.”
“You blasted can of bit-rotted chips! You assumed wrongly.” Pete's face had turned red.
*BAM* Another shot hit the ship, then another. Robot head wailed.
“Shields down to 76%”, said Pete, as he did his darndest to dodge weapons fire, made all the more difficult by the drop in speed caused by cruise spinning up. “You never, EVER, drop out of cruise unless I tell you. I swear I’ll get you for this, head.”
A volley of weapons fire strafed the Lass, sending it reeling. “Cripes, shields down to 35%,” said Pete, an edge rising in his voice. “They must be packing shield busters. This is gonna be close.”
Suddenly the Lass sprang forward, pushing Pete back in his seat and sending robot head tumbling off the console into his lap. The Lass’ speedometer started ticking ever upwards. “Cruise engaged, at long last,” said Pete with relief. “We'll be out of weapons range in no time, and those fighters are too small to carry cruise disruptors. We’re safe now.” He looked down to his crotch. “No thanks to you.”
Robot head looked up from Pete’s lap. “Won’t they just follow us?”
“This old bucket has a few surprises yet,” said Pete as he plonked robot head back on the console roughly. “She has a tricked-out engine core. We’ll put quite a few clicks between them and us by the time we reach the other smog field. Then we’ll lose ‘em for good.”
The Gallic fighters continued to fire on the Lass even as it sped out of range. A lone shot hit the ship; Pete did not bother flinching.
“The Gallic ships are engaging cruise to pursue, Mon Capitan,” said robot head.
“I told you not to worry, we’ll outrun ‘em.”
“How far to this other smog cloud?”
“About 20 clicks. Just sit tight, head, while I think of a reason not to boil you in oil.”
*******
The West Leeds Smog Cloud loomed ahead, a great oily slick in space, bigger and dirtier than the one the Lass flew out of.
“We’re nearly home,” said Pete.
“The Gallic fighters are still in pursuit," said Robot head, “although as you predicted, they have dropped back quite a way.”
“Yes, and that surprises me,” said Pete. “I thought they would have broken off pursuit and resumed their patrol. They must really want us bad.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the load of munitions we have in the hold?” said robot head curtly.
“Yes well, if they scanned us, which they probably did, such a cargo would put a red flag against us for sure,” said Pete. “Anyhow, it’s all moot. We’ll lose them for good in the smog before long.”
An alarm being beeping on the con. “Ah, Captain,” said robot head nervously, “a new group of ships just came in range, off to our left. They are vectoring on an intercept.”
“Designation?” said Pete, although he already knew the answer.
“One moment… Oh goddess! More Gallic Navy ships.”
“Alright, keep your mandible on,” said Pete. “We’ll simply bypass these tossers and lose them in the cloud, just like with the others. But whatever you do, head, do not disengage cruise! You hear me?”
“Oh I wouldn’t dream of it, Captain.”
As the Lass hurtled towards the safety of the smog cloud, the new group of Gallic ships took up an intercept position dead ahead.
“All right, just as we planned,” mumbled Pete. “Head,” he added more loudly,
“any more data on the new group of ships?”
“It’s… bigger.”
“What do you mean ‘bigger’”, demanded Pete. “More fighters?”
“No, I mean they aren’t just fighters. It’s a gunboat patrol. Four fighters and a gunboat, all heavily armed, and all right in our flight path!”
“Crap!” said Pete. “A gunboat is big enough to carry cruise disruptors, not to mention the extra firepower. This is getting harder than I anticipated. Dammit!”
“What do we do?” said robot head in a panic. “We must surrender now, it’s our only choice.”
“My shiny chum, it’s gone too far for that,” said Pete, “You’ll be melted down, and I’ll end up gracing some Generale’s table with an apple in my mouth, if what I hear of Gallic cuisine is anything to go by.”
*******
The safety of the smog cloud was so close Pete thought he could reach out and touch it; but they might as well have been a million clicks away, as the Gallic gunboat lay in between them like a huge guard dog, flanked by its fighters.
“What’s the range on the gunboat,” said Pete.
“Four clicks, and closing fast,” gibbered robot head.
“Right, that’s close enough.” Pete turned the Lass 90-degrees, skirting the edge of the smog field.
“The gunboat has altered course to intercept,” said robot head. “They’re still closing. They’ll be in weapons range in--”
“Of course they are,” said Pete, “which is why we’re gonna do this.” Suddenly Pete swerved the Lass 90-degrees back and headed directly towards the enemy. The gunboat was still some distance away, but it steadily grew bigger as the distance closed. Its big guns swiveled to aim at the Lass.
“Captain,” said robot head, “I’m no military tactician, but shouldn’t we be heading away from the large enemy ship, rather than on a collision course with it?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t know what strategy you have in mind, but I think it should be filed under ‘s’ for ‘suicidal’.”
“As I expected, they’ve dropped out of cruise so they can fire weapons,” said Pete. “That will give us just enough of a time window to scoot past and be in the smog cloud before they can resume pursuit. Of course, I may have to dodge a little.”
“And what happens when they fire a cruise disruptor?” said robot head. “Our ‘scoot’ will become a ‘lumber’.”
As if on cue, the cool voice of the con announced, “incoming missile”.
“Ah, Captain!” said robot head in alarm. “They’ve fired a cruise disruptor.”
A speck appeared just below the gunship, a glint of metal and flame. It grew larger with alarming rapidity as it homed in on the Lass. Pete kept his course.
“Why are we still moving towards it?” wailed robot head.
“Shut up!” snapped Pete. “The engines are behind us, remember? If the disruptor missile hits our front, the engines will be out of range of its explosive yield.” He added with a mumble, “hopefully.”
*******
Even Pete winced as the missile struck the forward shield of the Lass at hypervelocity, right before his face. There was an explosion which rocked the ship and produced a spectacular geyser of glittering chaff and energy; but also harmless, as the Lass’ cruise engines did not falter. They continued on their trajectory towards the enemy.
“You see that, robot head?” Pete said. “That’s what they call ‘skill’.” He chuckled, although his gloating was cut short. The Gallic gunship, now at virtually point blank range, sat huge and menacing in their path. Suddenly there was a bright flash from the ship.
“They’ve fired their main gun!” screeched robot head. “We’ll be barbequed.”
Pete was caught off guard. A great sphere of energy hurtled from the gunship directly at the Lass. At the last second he rolled the ship; the scintillating penumbra of the sphere glanced along the Lass’ ventral shield, illuminating the cabin momentarily, but causing little damage.
“That was a bit close,” said Pete, his voice shaking a little.
Now the gunship’s secondary turrets opened fire on the Lass, a rapid succession of energy bolts hurtling by. Meanwhile the escort fighters had rounded to outflank the Lass, firing their guns from behind. But with its superior speed and Pete’s erratic maneuvering, none of them landed a serious hit on the little freighter.
Pete steered the Lass on a near-collision flyby over the gunship; as they dashed past its bridge they could see some very startled Navy officers. Pete raised a finger at the commander.
The gunship and its fuming commander now behind them, there was nothing in front but the safety of the smog cloud.
“Haha! There we go, head,” chortled Pete. “Head?” But robot head sat silent, its eyes replaced by fields of blue filled with white hexadecimal numbers. It had fainted.
“Anyway,” Pete went on, “they’ll have to come about if they want to fire another cruise disruptor. We’ll be out of range by then.”
Robot head came back online. “Are we dead?”
“We most certainly are not, old chum.”
Incoming missile.
"Oh Goddess, another disruptor, and we're not yet out of range," wailed robot head.
"Not to worry, plastic brain," said Pete. “Deploying countermeasure flares." A line of metal balls dropped out from behind the Lass; they sat in its wake dormant for a second, then each one burst into flame. The disruptor missile struck one and exploded at a harmless distance.
“Hmm,” said Pete, “looks like Gallic gunships turn quicker than I thought. Something to remember.”
*******
The first tendrils of the smog cloud curled around the Lass. Pete sat back casually with his hands behind his head.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Captain,” said robot head. “The Gallic patrol has powered up cruise and is in pursuit. Again.”
The smog grew thicker; the pursuing ships were barely visible on the rear monitor. “Bah,” scoffed Pete, “As I already explained, between the smog and our greater speed, they won’t be able to detect us before long.”
In fact the smog was much denser than the first cloud they had flown through; it was now so thick it was impossible to even gauge where the Leeds sun was. Occasional clumps of muck bounced off the Lass’ shields. As Pete predicted the Gallic ships disappeared from the scanner before they were a mere two clicks behind.
“There we go, head,” gloated Pete, “safe and sound.”
“That’s well and good, Captain”, said robot head, “but where are we going? We can't hide in this cloud forever.”
“I have input a list of coordinates into the nav. Just follow them in succession.”
“But these coordinates just take us on a random and circuitous course through the cloud,” said robot head.
“Yes, we’re taking the scenic route.”
“The scenic route?”
“I can’t have those garlic-sniffing louts extrapolate our destination from our last trajectory, or follow our ion wake through this cloud, can I? I’m covering our tracks, tin head.”
“Makes sense,” mumbled robot head.
Pete stood up. “Right, I’ll be in back. Let me know if you're in dire need of a hero again.” He produced a hanky wiped his sweaty brow, and made his way out of the cockpit.
“But how will we know when we’ve reached our destination?” robot head called after him.
“We’ll know when we bloody well get there!” Pete called back.
Pete squeezed back into the Lass’ cockpit. Robot head noted that he had changed back into his Freelancer’s ensemble, complete with its straining gun belt.
“We’re not far from the last set of coordinates,” said robot head. “We must have criss-crossed this smoke cloud a dozen times.”
“Any sign of the Royal Garlic Navy?” said Pete.
Head chuckled. “Not a whiff. If they’ve followed us then they’re remaining outside our scanner range.”
Pete petted the con. “Unlikely. The Lass’ scanner range is better than most. And even if they did manage to track us, I also doubt they followed our robot-vacuum-cleaner course all over the cloud. If they did, they’re the darndest bunch of tracking dogs I’ve ever seen.”
“I hope you’re right,” said robot head. He added, “We’re approaching the last set of coordinates now.”
“Good. Start scanning.”
“For what?”
“For a ship, stupid, ” said Pete. “What else?”
Robot head groaned. “Scanning...”
A few minutes passed by. Pete noticed they had they had flown by the coordinates. “Well?” he said impatiently.
“I’m still scanning,” said head. “I’m not picking up anything... wait...”
“What? What is it?”
“I’m picking up something, off to port,” said robot head.
“That’s it,” said Pete. “Cutting cruise engines, altering course to that location. I think in this instance, old chum, we should proceed slowly.”
“I heartily agree,” said robot head.
Pete and robot head lurched forward as the Lass’ cruise engines wound down and the ship lost speed. Pete steered to port. Out of the brown gloom something emerged, a dark and shapeless mass, growing larger as the Lass slowly approached.
“I’m not picking up any energy readings,” said robot head.
“It’s dead as a doornail,” said Pete. “Scan for composition, structure, anything.”
“Scanning...” said robot head. “It appears to be composed of regular ship alloys. Although the scanner’s resolution in this cloud is too broad to get a precise reading, the structure appears to be unlike any ship configuration on file. And there are still zero energy readings.” It added, “Captain, there is evidence of scoring, most likely caused by weapons fire.”
“That’s not good news,” Pete muttered as they approached and gained a better visual of the object. There were no lights or other signs of life or activity. “Whatever it was, it looks like an abandoned wreck now.”
“I concur,” said robot head.
Pete slammed his hand on the con and swore.
“Captain?!” said a startled robot head.
“Damn, bloody, blasted, bloody, crap!” Pete ranted. “We came all this way, spent all that money, got our arses shot off, pussy-footed around this stinking cloud, all for nothing. Absolutely nothing! Big fat zilch.”
Robot head was about to say something soothingly sarcastic, but Pete cut it off.
“I just hope my contact wasn’t giving me a bum steer,” said Pete shaking an ominous finger. “Because if he was, I swear to Eris, there isn’t a black hole deep enough for him to hide in.”
Robot head felt there was more to Pete’s fury than a mere loss of time and money. They’d lost more and been shot at more in the past, and had bigger deals go sour, and it had never solicited this kind of visceral reaction from the captain. But then something on the con caught robot head’s attention.
“Nothing but a goddam pile of wreckage!” Pete rambled.
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” said the head.
“Why not?” said Pete.
“Because the pile of wreckage is hailing us.”
Pete’s eyes goggled. “It’s what?”
“It’s hailing us.”
“Well answer it then, you nitwit.”
A face appeared on the monitor. The picture was grainy and distorted by smog interference, but the figure was unmistakably a proud officer of the Bretonia Armed Forces.