 
# Space Truckers

David Robinson

© David Robinson 2020. All rights reserved

# Contents

Coronallium Conundrum

Pirates of Penzarc

A Kairfree Christmas

#  Coronallium Conundrum

"Federation President, Emlo Frinel, has confirmed that the blast at Consolidated Industries' mine on Mercury was caused by a coronallium fuelled neutron disruptor. The Sol 3 Fundamentalist movement have accepted responsibility for the attack which claimed six lives and wrecked over 800 specialist mining bots. Total cost of the damage is estimated at eight billion dollars."

Bazill Beatel switched off the newscast, gazed mournfully through the viewport at the northern hemisphere of Sol 3 and sighed.

"What was it you said to me in college? 'Stick with me, BB. Stick with me and you'll go places'."

Across the cockpit, ensconced in the left hand seat, Grenlon Garamine, nominal skipper of the Laughing Sow, did not take his eyes from the holovid display. "You do go places. You go all over the Sol system and most of the quadrant."

"I'm a space trucker," BB clucked, "and I never wanted to be a space trucker. I'm a top flight pilot. I coulda signed on with Spaceways and had my own ship before I was fifty."

Still Gren did not take his eyes from his holovid projector. "You wouldn't have liked it, BB. I know you. I've known you all your life. You wouldn't have been happy bowing and kow-towing to filthy rich passengers on a cruiseliner, yes-sirring other pilots and the skipper. At least you're your own boss on this ship."

The orange blip of a tracking beacon appeared on BB's readouts. His fingers danced quickly and accurately over the keyboard and the ship heeled right to follow the beacon.

He lifted the headset from the control yoke and slipped it over his crown, jamming the earpiece into his right ear. Pushing the R/T button on the yoke, he said, "Sol 3 approach, this is golf, delta, seven, zero, eight, alpha, four, two, seven, seven, kilo India. Call sign, Laughing Sow, locked onto nav-beacon three-six-two. Inbound for Verplemansh."

There was a momentary delay. "Roger, Laughing Sow, continue standard approach via nav-beacons, three-six-two, then one-four-four and stack at zero-five-seven for Verplemansh. You are currently number eight, ahead of Spaceways interstellar class cruiseliner, _Britannic_."

"Roger approach. Laughing Sow complying." BB threw off the headset again, and spent a few moments programming the approach instructions into the navputer. Leaning back in his seat he glanced across at his oldest friend and business partner.

Gren had always been the more business savvy of the pair. Lacking BB's height and physical presence, Gren had relied upon his glib tongue to get by, and when they emerged from college clutching their astronavigation diplomas, it was the logical step for both of them to opt for pilot training. BB was one of the best, Gren barely above average, but his smooth talking had persuaded his partner to join him in their current venture. They sank their life savings into the Laughing Sow, and set out on the road to fortune.

And Gren was happy. They were making money. True, the Laughing Sow was hardly the height of luxury, but it was in good condition and good hands as long as BB was at the yoke.

BB was not so happy, and for a variety of reasons. He'd anticipated great times piloting ships through the system and the quadrant. He'd even considered joining the Militia and training as an interceptor pilot. A misunderstanding in a Venusian bar put an end to that idea. Although BB pleaded with both husbands that he had no idea the two women were married, it cut little ice with the men, both Militia officers, and to make matters worse, when he showed up for primary selection, one of the two turned out to be his recruiting sergeant.

At the tender age of 32, like it or not, he was doomed to the life of a space trucker, and that had its drawbacks. Every time they were intercepted by the Millies, he got a ticket. The recruiting sergeant and his buddy had made sure of that.

Persuading Gren that there had to be a better life was a waste of breath. The shorter and tubbier of the two was quite content to sit in the left hand seat, leaving all the work to BB, while he kept a close eye on the accounts, and watched holovids.

The big advantage of holovid projection was that no matter what angle you looked from, the 3-dimensional output always looked the same. From his seat, BB could also watch the sci-fi action series, _Velda & the Styrians_. She was some hen, that Velda. About BB's age, only half dressed most of the time, she kicked alien ass throughout the galaxy. BB would give his right arm for some of that action.

His right arm was about all he could afford to give, and the thought reminded him of his next complaint.

"And that's another thing," he griped. "We're supposed to be equal partners in this hunk of junk."

"I dunno about equal partners, BB," his pal responded. "I did put up more of the initial capital than you. I figure that makes you a junior partner."

"According to my bank account, I'm the embryonic partner," BB replied as the Laughing Sow banked left onto a fresh heading and the Sol 3 horizon grew large in the viewports.

"I'm not responsible for the way you spend your dosh," Gren said.

"We're never in one place long enough for me to spend it," BB yelled. "You don't pay me is the real truth."

"Don't be daft. Of course I pay you."

BB reached over and jabbed the 'off' button on the holovid.

"Hey," shouted Gren, at last taking his eyes from the projector. "I was watching that."

"Well, now you're looking at me. Tell me when you last paid me any wages."

Gren's eyes roamed the cockpit while he thought about the question. He opened his mouth to speak. Before he could utter a word, a violent jolt shook the Laughing Sow. Gren scanned the instrument panel. "Atmospheric interphase," he said.

Dropping the argument, BB turned front and centre, looped his arms through his harness, and while buckling up, he checked his own instruments.

"Speed one hundred forty thousand feet per second, descent rate, four thousand feet per minute, bearing, zero, zero three, range, twenty-five hundred miles."

Gren called out from his console. "Forward heat shield to maximum, retro thrusters engaged and primed, stub wings extended, radio blackout imminent, harnesses locked, air brakes active."

BB jabbed the internal comm switch. "Mekkano get your butt in here."

"Complying, delirious dipstick," came the electronic response of their onboard servobot.

Without taking his eyes from the instrument panel, Gren tutted. "If I ever get my hands on the tech who messed up his verbal responses..."

"You should have paid the guy," BB observed.

"He did an inferior job on that bot."

"Only because you tried to bilk him for his tab," BB said, and scanned the instruments again, his hand clasped loosely round the yoke. Autopilot, the safest method of guiding any interplanetary and interstellar craft, was notoriously unreliable in a thick atmosphere like that of Sol 3. It relied upon absolute consistency of radio communication with navigations satellites, and re-entry often led to total radio blackout lasting up to four minutes. The Laughing Sow needed a steady hand close to the yoke, ready to keep her on course for those few, critical minutes.

The cockpit door slid open and Mekkano glided in.

The bot always reminded BB of a squat dustbin, floating a few inches off the ground. A short, squat droid running on antigrav sensors, it was possessed of a rudimentary, photoelectric eye slit which, thanks to free-running electrical brushes, allowed it 360o visibility, and omnidirectional free jointed arms that could hold many attachments, all kept within its central storage hold, in its barrel chest.

"Mekkano," BB ordered, "clean this place up."

"Complying, pimple brain," said Mekkano and reached into his storage compartment to bring out a brush and dustpan.

The Laughing Sow's frame stopped shuddering and the radio crackled into life.

"Laughing Sow from Verplemansh control, we have your cargo details here, but there is some query. Can you confirm that you're carrying six thousand tons of coronallium ore?"

"Negative, control," Gren responded. "We're carrying corominium. Coronallium is haz-cargo and we're not licensed for it, but I'm assured by the consignee that this is not the same material."

"Roger that, Laughing Sow, but to be honest, I've never heard of corominium, which is why we queried. You're sure you or the consignee did not make a mistake?"

"The docs have been beamed to you, control. You know as much as we do. Our cargo is corominium rock dust."

"And the consignee is Amalgamated Mining of Ceres?"

"Check." Gren replied.

"All right, Laughing Sow. Continue approach to the stack, you are now number three ahead of the _Britannic_."

Mekkano busied himself swivelling back and forth, dusting and sweeping the seats, floor and consoles, giving the viewports a quick wipe over, throwing trash, sweet wrappers, cigar butts, into the atomic disruptor, and accidentally throwing Gren's holovid remote handset along with the trash.

"I have made an error, you jackass," apologised the robot.

"Just get out of here," growled Gren.

"Complying, ass wipe." The robot disappeared through the cabin door.

The city of Brissdiff passed below as the ship pushed northwards. In the right hand seat, with nothing to do for five minutes, BB called up the manifest and studied its detail.

"Hey, Gren, this stuff is supposed to go to the Scottish Highlands. How come we're touching down at Verplemansh?"

Gren snorted. "Have you seen the landing charges at Aberverness? I did a bit of wheeling and dealing with a local firm. We dump at Verplemansh and he'll hop the stuff up to Aberverness and the Duntoomin place for a song."

The Laughing Sow's speed dropping all the time, she zipped across Brumwolverstaff and presently the vast conurbation of Verplemansh appeared on the horizon, a morass of twinkling streetlights spread across a fifty mile corridor either side of the river Merseydee.

"Laughing Sow from Verplemansh approach, reduce speed to two, zero, zero, follow standard approach, you are slotted at dock sixty-one, berth twelve."

"Roger." Gren punched in the details, and the holoputer display changed accordingly as the Laughing Sow's nose shifted slightly to the left. "Vertical lift set at eight point seven."

With their height registering 3,000 feet, BB adjusted his seating position and looked out and down.

Immediately below, spread over 60 square miles of North Merseydee Banks, Verplemansh spaceport gleamed with the hulls of a thousand liners, luggers, yachts, cruisers and flivvers. BB looked upon the shining hulls with great longing.

A gap appeared between an ore carrier and a planet clipper. BB hovered and then decreased vertical thrust. The Laughing Sow dropped slowly, Gren concentrating finely on the readouts, BB tickling rudder pedals occasionally to maintain the correct attitude, his eyes fixed on the schematic hologram, a stylised circle representing their berth, and a cross representing the ship. By making subtle and tiny adjustments to the control column, BB kept the cross in the precise centre of the circle.

"The rules say the pute's supposed to do the landing," Gren objected.

"Stuff the rules. This is the only practice I get."

Gren flicked switches, three stubby landing legs extended from the pregnant belly of the Laughing Sow, the ground approached at twenty feet per second. At fifty feet, BB slid the throttles forward a fraction, gaining a little more lift, the descent rate slowed to 3 feet per second and suddenly, the thousands of tons of the Laughing Sow touched the ground with a barely perceptible bump.

"A perfect landing yet again," BB congratulated himself. "Magno-anchors."

Gren pulled a lever. Somewhere far off at the rear of the ship, slats opened and a pair of one ton electromagnetic discs, both a foot thick and six feet in diameter, dropped to the ground, locking themselves on steel plates built into the flat, concrete berth.

"Magno-anchors in place. Going into shutdown." Gren looked through the view ports to the ground 40 feet below where a squad of Militiamen fanned out around the Laughing Sow's nose. "Hmm. Welcoming committee. Wonder what they're waiting for?"

He had barely had time to get the words out when loudhailers burst through the night.

"Attention, Grenlon Garamine and Bazill Beatel, crew of the Laughing Sow. You are under arrest on suspicion of smuggling coronallium into Verplemansh Spaceport. You are ordered to shut down your engines, deactivate your weapons and come out with your hands raised. You have two minutes in which to obey or we will open fire."

About to shut off the engines anyway, BB's fingers paused over the isolator switch. "What the hell are they talking about? You said we were carrying corominium, not..." He trailed off and cast a mean eye at Gren's twitching jowls and worried eyes. "You bleeping idiot. You've dropped us in it, haven't you?"

"No, BB. Honest. The guy told me it was corominium."

BB stared through the viewports. Spaceways cruiseliner, the _Britannic_ , hovered at 1,000 feet, dropping slowly to the dockside.

"Retract magno-anchors," he ordered.

"BB, you can't–"

"You wanna spend the next 25 years digging out ores in the Phobos penal colony."

"Well, no, but—"

"Then retract magno-anchors."

"We'll never get away," Gren whined.

"DO IT!"

Hand shaking, Gren flipped the switch and from somewhere far off came the whine of the anchors retracting.

The action was not lost on the Militia, either. As the anchors rose into the Laughing Sow's belly, the loudhailer sounded again. "Attention, crew of the Laughing Sow, you are under arrest. Lower your anchors and shut down your engines or we shall open fire."

"Full shields," BB ordered.

"Those are designed to fend off meteorites, not laser cannons."

"Full shields," BB repeated and gunned the vertical thrusters.

Gren flipped the shields on and trembled.

BB laid on forward thrust and the Laughing Sow began to move forward, her belly less than fifteen feet from the ground.

Pandemonium broke out amongst the Militia squad. Unused to having their orders disobeyed, they dissolved quickly into a confused mob rather than a well-drilled squad, and looked to their young commander for guidance.

The number one gunner primed his laser cannon. "Ready to fire, sir."

"Er, hold," said the lieutenant.

"Sir, I have the ship's engines in my sights. Unless I hit them now, we'll lose them."

"I said hold your fire." The officer looked frantically around, and then up, and pointed above the Laughing Sow where the city-sized hulk of the _Britannic_ continued to descend. "If you take that, er, piece of crap out, the _Britannic_ will settle on it and snap in two. We'll kill hundreds." Sweat breaking on his forehead, he disregarded the sneering eyes of his squad. "You men," he barked. "Light weapons only. Open fire on the Laughing Sow."

In the cockpit, BB grinned at the flashes of blaster bolts striking the Pig's meteor shield and bouncing off. "Peashooters."

Across from him, Gren closed his eyes and began muttering to himself in prayer.

Alerts sounded. BB scanned the control panel. The centre display flashed red. "OVERHEAD OBSTRUCTION, OVERHEAD OBSTRUCTION." Less than 200 feet from their upper hull, the 250,000 ton bulk of the _Britannic_ continued to descend. It would take time for the pilots to build sufficient thrust to give the liner any lift and in the meantime she would continue to bear down on them.

BB hit the throttles. The nose of the _Britannic_ stood over half a mile ahead. Either side of the great liner were the latticed framework of embarkation/debarkation gantries, ready to hug the ship's hull when she settled, but for now they prevented BB moving port or starboard to escape the descending leviathan. He had no choice but to push ahead.

"It's gonna be close."

Gren opened his eyes and stared through the viewports at the ground flashing past, less than 50 feet below. "Crumbling bilge tanks, what the hell are you doing, BB?"

"Getting us out of your mess... again."

Gren closed his eyes... again.

The _Britannic_ 's landing beams cast pools of light countered by shadows of the dark, giant hull settling to its berth. BB kicked the throttles further. The cabin door slid open and Mekkano entered.

"Excuse me, dinky dong, but systems indicate that we are about to collide with the irreversible cruiseliner."

"I already know," BB retorted, his eyes darting from the console to the view beyond the cockpit where the nose of the _Britannic_ and clear space beyond still appeared as a hopeless dream. "Get out of here, Mekkano."

"Complying, pimple pus."

The whistle of _Britannic_ 's vertical thrusters filled the air. The Laughing Sow dipped slightly under their immense power. Gren steeled himself for collision with the ground, but with all the skill of a fighter pilot BB altered the aileron trim to compensate.

The _Britannic_ loomed so large that Gren could see it through the side viewports. It seemed to him to be only inches away, but the vertical stabiliser rose 50 feet above the Laughing Sow's upper hull and the great liner had not made contact with it yet.

"We're not gonna make it," he screamed.

BB jammed the thrust levers forward. "Come on, you heap of scrap. Get us out of here."

With the _Britannic_ about to scrape the stabiliser, the Laughing Sow rushed out into a square mile of clear space, the minimum demanded for landing a cruiseliner. BB dragged back on the yoke and the Pig's nose rose sluggishly.

Gren relaxed, but only for a moment before the radio burst into life.

"Laughing Sow, from Verplemansh control. You are ordered to turn your ship round and lockdown at berth 61-alpha, the impound dock, where the Militia are waiting. Do you read, Laughing Sow?"

BB slipped on his headset. "Er, we read, Verplemansh, but we're having a little difficulty here. Unable to comply."

"Roger that, Laughing Sow, but be advised, Militia fighters are airborne and have been ordered to intercept. Unless you comply, you will be shot down. What is the nature of your difficulty?"

"Er, the pilot's, er, fainted."

"Roger, Laughing Sow. We can handle landing from down here. I will instruct you on how to hand over auto-control."

BB flicked the R/T off and threw his headset on the floor. "Numb nuts. Gren, activate all scanners. We're going to hyperspace as soon as I can warm up the drive."

Gren's mouth fell open. "You can't engage the hyperdrive so close to a planet. The gravitational pull will tear us to pieces."

"That's only a theory," BB argued.

"Well I don't wanna be the one to confirm it," Gren retorted. "Anyway, you can't go that far in hyperspace."

"Why not?" BB wanted to know.

"Because the stripped proton level is down to less than five percent; enough to get us from here the Asteroid belt, but no further."

BB glared. "What? Why?"

"Stripped protons cost money, right? We've just landed a prime contract hauling ores for Amalgamated. We'll be going to Ceres and back for the next year. Where's the sense in bunkering enough stripped protons to take us to Betelgeuse when we're working in our own back yard?"

BB shook his head. "For a supposed businessman, you have all the brains of a street poop scooper." He shrugged. "We'll just have to wing it."

"Give it up, BB," Gren advised. "I can negotiate with the Millies."

"You couldn't even negotiate with Amalgamated," BB retorted. "I had to step in and up the price or you'd have had us running at a loss." Abruptly, he changed the subject. "Any sign of the fighters yet?"

Gren scanned his screen. "Six of them. Twin hemispheres, one north, the other south. Range 80 clicks, speed, Mach seven. Contact time, thirty seconds."

BB pulled back on the yoke and put the Laughing Sow into a steep climb.

"BB, we're never gonna make it. We're losing speed and contact time has already been cut to twenty seconds."

"Prime the hyperdrive."

"BB–"

"Quit arguing and do it," BB snapped. "We'll have to risk it."

Gren quit arguing. "Where?"

"Doomy's."

Gren called up the pute log and highlighted _Doomsayer_ on the main screen. He hit the 'select' button and it appeared in the hyperdrive target. "Pute calcs will take eight seconds." He checked the scanners. "Interceptors contact time, twelve seconds and falling. BB, if we end up dead, I'll never forgive you."

"We can argue about it outside the pearly gates." BB lowered the nose slightly and watched the airspeed climb a couple of notches.

The radio crackled into life again. "Laughing Sow, from Intercept leader. You are ordered to change attitude, ease speed and descend for Verplemansh. If you do not comply, we will fire."

"I thought I'd switched the radio off," BB grumbled.

"Interceptors can put them on by remote, remember," Gren reminded him. "Contact time, four seconds. Hyperdrive is primed."

"Stand by for goodbye. One way or the other."

"Laughing Sow, acknowledge or you will be destroyed."

BB called up the hyperdrive control panel and hit the button.

CAUTION: STRONG GRAVITATIONAL FIELD PROXIMITY. ENGAGING HYPERDRIVE MAY BE HAZARDOUS. DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE?

"Why does this thing ask stupid questions?" BB demanded.

"Incoming!" Gren cried.

BB checked the scanners. The brilliant and deadly glare of an air to air missile remained dead centre, growing as it neared them, homed precisely on their engine port outlets.

He jabbed the hyperdrive button a second time and everything went black.

For ten years, Mordecai Doomsayer had run his diner and filling station on a chunk of rock designated only as Asteroid 7887.

Known amongst the truckers as Doomy's Choke 'n' Go, it was home to Doomsayer, his wife and a few dozen servo bots that handled cleaning, cooking and delivering meals as well as assisting with stock and fuel deliveries. With 71 lockdown points where the truckers could nose in and enter the bio-bubble surrounding the place, each equipped with plasma and stripped proton injection nozzles for refuelling, it was set up to cater for all traffic, system and interstellar.

It was also a regular supply point for the Laughing Sow. On their way out to any system in the quadrant, they would stop by Doomy's, take a meal, stock up the larders and fuel tanks, and Gren usually took advantage of the free bot-charging service. On their way back from any system in the quadrant, they would again stop at Doomy's and stock up.

"His prices ain't cheap," Gren could often be heard to say, "but the food's good, charging Mekkano saves on the Laughing Sow's power reserves, and BB has scored with the hens there more times than at any serious spaceport."

Despite its location on a lump of rock five miles wide by two in circumference, Doomy never worried about the potential for robbery. His bots, like all such creatures, were programmed not to harm human beings, but they were capable of restraining would-be attackers, and anyway there were usually enough truckers in residence to put off any sane thief or gang of pirates. Truckers may be loners by nature, but as a support crowd, Doomy could not ask for better.

The man himself was poring over the holovid news when a voice took him almost by surprise.

"Hands where I can see them. Open the till and hand over the cash."

Doomy turned from the holovid projector and stared at the chubby figure, face masked by a muffler, eyes narrowed, a plastic gun held in shaky hands and pointed at Doomy's chest.

"How scared do you think I should be of a toy gun?" the proprietor demanded.

"This is no toy," the thief retorted. "This is the absolute latest, state of the art, laser needle gun. Now hand over the loot."

Doomy shook his head. "It's a water pistol. I sell them in the shop. In fact, I think you've just taken it from there, and it'll cost you five creds." He held out his hand. "Now come on, Gren, pay up."

Gren removed the muffler and put the water pistol on the counter. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Ain't many guys in this neck of the woods with a waistline like yours. And if you're gonna take up armed robbery, at least buy something that _looks_ like a blaster."

BB ambled in from the washrooms. "Hey, Doomy, what gives?"

"Nothing. Only your buddy, here, just tried to hold up the Choke 'n' Go."

BB frowned. "Gren, I said explain to Doomy, not hi-jack his cash register."

"You guys eating?" Doomy asked.

"That depends on you," Gren admitted. "I'm starving but we're broke."

BB took a stool next to Gren and leaned on the counter. "We just tried to draw credit from the ATM," he explained, "and the Millies have frozen both our accounts. God knows why they froze mine. I only had 83 dollars in it."

Doomy poured hot coffee for them. "The Millies. You guys are trouble, huh?"

BB dropped milk and sugar into his coffee and stirred it. "He's got us into trouble, Doomy. I'm just carrying the can, and we need a line of credit."

Mordecai shook his head. "Don't you guys ever read the signs?" he gestured at the wall behind where an electronic notice read, _please don't ask for credit. My bot-dog ain't been fed._

"All right then, Doomy," Gren said, "we need some goodwill."

"Tell me everything," Doomy invited.

BB sipped his coffee. "This should be good. We're on the lam and even I haven't been told it all, yet."

Gren stirred moodily into his beaker. "We're on contract to Amalgamated, running ores from Ceres to Sol 3. The rates are not bad, and the turnaround at Verplemansh or San Franangeles is good, but when you get back to Ceres you can sit for two days waiting to load. We're truckers, Doomy. We don't make dough sitting on our butts doing nothing. Turnaround is everything."

"I hear this from the truckers all the time," Doomy agreed. "Go on."

"Yesterday, we were cooling our heels, waiting to be called to the loading dock, and I wandered into town. Met this guy, Goren Sinto, in a bar. Rough cut, but sound, y'know. Anyway he asked if I was looking for a load. He had 6,000 tons of corominium for some outfit called Duntoomin Industries. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Northern Scotch. Yeah? Sinto was willing to pay me twenty thousand. Ten up front, in cash, balance on delivery."

Doomy laughed. "And you didn't suspect?"

"Well, course I did. I told him no. We don't carry coronallium. But he says, no it ain't coronallium, it's corominium. Not the same stuff. Amalgamated dig millions of tons of this stuff out of the asteroids and just dump it."

"If it's garbage, why did Sinto want it shifting?" BB asked.

"He explained that. Apparently, the pesticides industry can use the stuff, but it's not entirely safe. That's why the Federation won't allow it."

"So you took the job on?" Doomy asked.

Gren nodded. "Wouldn't you?"

Doomy ignored the question. "So what happened?"

"We got to Verplemansh and the Millies were waiting for us," BB replied. "It really was coronallium, not corominium. That stuff is so dangerous it can only be moved by specialist ships with armed escorts, and dipstick here had us carrying it. If the Millies catch us, we're looking at a 25 stretch on Phobos. So we ran for it, they've frozen our bank accounts and we're broke."

Doomy frowned, his bushy eyebrows narrowing. "Hang on one damn minute, Gren. You're asking me for credit and this Sinto character paid you ten big ones in cash?"

"I paid it into the bank straight away," Gren explained. "There are space pirates about, you know, Doomy. Even with someone as crazy as BB and Mekkano on board, they'll still take us if they track us down."

Again Doomy ignored the response. "If this Duntoomin place is in Scotch, how come you ran this to Verplemansh instead of Aberverness?"

"The landing fees at Aberverness are outrageous," Gren explained. "I had a word with a pal, and he agreed to run the stuff up to Duntoomin from Verplemansh for just a coupla hundred more than the Aberverness mini-hoppers wanted. I saved dough in the long run."

"But now you're top of the list on Most Wanted." Doomy stroked his chin. "I remember you telling me you took a business course, Gren. What was it? How to fail in business without really trying?"

"Be fair, Doomy," BB grinned. "He can't help being an idiot."

Both men laughed, drawing the attention of the young woman at the far end of the counter. As they talked on, she left her seat and drifted towards them.

"So what is it you need?" Doomy asked.

"Fuel, stripped protons, and supplies," BB spelled out.

"That'll leave you owing me at least two grand and I don't know if I'm ever gonna see you guys again."

"Please, Doomy, I'm begging," Gren said, only to be pushed aside by his partner.

"You know me, Doomy. He may be a pushover –" BB jerked his thumb at Gren "– but I'm not. I'll root out this Sinto guy and when I've done with him, he'll be begging to talk to the Millies."

"Hi."

The new voice distracted BB. He looked to his left and down from his six feet two inches, into a pair of pretty, brown eyes under a fringe of dark brown hair. Lower down an inviting mouth smiled invitingly up at him, and lower still, a slender, yet shapely body filled a dark, one-piece jump suit.

"Not tonight, sugar," he told her. "I ain't buying."

The smile became a pout. "I'm not selling," she admonished him. "I'm not that kinda girl."

"You're sure advertising like that kinda girl. Listen, hun, if you're looking for free beer, you're looking in the wrong direction."

"No, you don't understand," she insisted. "I couldn't help overhearing, and I may be able to help you find Goren Sinto."

Now all three pairs of eyes fell on her.

"My name is Sulin Tassil. My father used to be a trucker. He stopped here many a time." She looked to Doomy. "Maybe you knew him?"

Doomy shrugged. "I don't know them all," he confessed.

"He's on Phobos right now, and the guy who put him there is Goren Sinto." Sulin smiled thinly. "Listening to your tale sounds just like listening to my dad. Easy money for a quick turnaround, but it all went sour."

"And what makes you think you can find Sinto?" BB demanded.

"I'm a journalist," she told him. "I've been tracking this guy for two years now, ever since they locked my dad up. All I need is a lift to one of his favourite haunts. I can wait for him there." She smiled again. "You could, too."

"And where is this favourite haunt?" Gren asked. "Kentaur Five? Kartonia?"

"Right here in the Sol system," Sulin replied. "Europa. One of Jupiter's moons. He hangs out in a bar called the Jupitan Junket."

Gren swallowed hard. "We know all about the Jupitan Junket," he said. "But we can't go there." When Sulin raised her eyebrows, he explained, "There was a bit of an incident between BB and Mimo Mantarin, the proprietor's wife."

"Incident as in..." Sulin trailed off and Gren nodded.

"The owner, Morgo Mantarin said if BB ever sets foot on Europa again, he's dog meat."

"Who's dog meat? Morgo or BB?"

"Never mind Morgo Mantarin," BB interjected. "How good is your information?"

"Guaranteed one hundred percent," Sulin replied.

BB swivelled and faced Doomy again. "How about it?"

The older man shrugged. "I've known you guys a long time. I guess I can take the risk, but if I were you, I'd hurry up."

Gren raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

Doomy pointed at the holovid projector where the newscast showed Gren and BB's faces. "How long do you figure it'll be before the Millies get around to me?

"Move it, BB, the Millies are here."

Supervising the Choke 'n' Go's bots loading the final supplies, BB looked up at the crew hatch to find a worried Gren staring down at him. "How long?"

"Four minutes," Gren replied.

"Light the fires and get plenty of coal in the boiler," BB shouted. "And while you're at it, prime the hyperdrive, and plug the Europa leap into the pute."

"Can we just remember who's the skipper of this tub?" Gren complained.

"Can we also think on who got us into this mess. Just do it, Gren." BB rounded on the bot sliding a box into the storage hold. "Drop that in there and clear off."

"Complying, sir. I trust you have enjoyed your stay at Doomsayer's Service Station and you will call ag..."

"Go away."

"Complying." The bot drifted back towards the warehouse.

BB leaned into the hold. "Mekkano, get this stuff stowed double quick and secure for hyperleap."

"Complying, brainless dork."

BB jabbed the lock button and the access hatch closed. He hurried along and up the ramp, hitting the buttons to retract the ramp and seal the main airlock. Bursting into the cockpit, he found Gren poring over his pute, and Sulin in the jump seat immediately behind the skipper.

BB leapt into his seat and fired up his console. From far off came the whine of the plasma engines spooling up. "Disengage lockdown," he ordered.

Gren hit the switch. "Disengaged."

With the ship free of the Choke 'n' Go's bio-bubble, BB engaged reverse thrust and the ship edged back. Slinging her hard to port, he lifted the nose a little and put on forward thrust. Slowly, Doomsayer's Diner slid back out of their view ports and the cluttered asteroid belt lay before them.

"Interceptors. Two minutes and closing," Gren reported.

BB put on more thrust, his focus darting between plasma temperature gauges and navigational scans picking out lumps of rock in their path.

"Nose up ninety degrees," he said, and pulled back on the yoke.

"You're going straight up?" Sulin asked.

"You fancy jumping to Europa from the middle of an asteroid field?" BB retorted. "We accelerate into a warp field. One rock in the way and we're history."

Gren chewed his lip. "Field density is twenty-eight percent, BB, and those interceptors are coming up too fast. We'll never make it."

"Oh ye of little faith," BB said, looping over an intervening rock a hundred yards long and ten thick. "How's the hyperdrive shaping up?"

"Priming," Gren reported. "Another two minutes."

"Europa jump programmed?"

"Give me a minute, will you? I've only one pair of hands."

"That's one hand for each brain cell, then." BB snapped and jerked the Laughing Sow hard right to avoid another rock.

"Attention, Laughing Sow. Militia Intercept Squadron six-one-one. You are ordered to stabilise and hold your current orbit and prepare for boarding. Do you read me?"

BB tutted and picked up his headset. "Ah, say again. I didn't catch your name. Millicent who?"

"Don't get smart, Beatel," snarled the Intercept leader. "Just hold your current orbit until we come aboard. You're under arrest."

BB slewed the ship left and ducked under an oncoming asteroid. "I, er, don't think so. Mom always told me never to talk to strange men." Cutting the R/T, he asked Gren, "how many and how far?"

Gren studied his readouts. "Six, and if you look out the window you should be able to see the pilot."

BB looked to his right and sure enough the ugly lines of Militia Interceptor sat on his wing. The pilot drew an angry finger across his throat. BB smiled and gave the fighter the thumbs up. "Is that you, Millicent?" he asked.

"This is your final warning, Beatel. Shut down your drive and hold orbit for boarding."

Up ahead, twin asteroids danced through the night, looping up and over and around each other, with a gap of less than 100 yards between them. BB pulled up his navscreen in schematic mode and centred the crosshairs on the gap.

"Gonna be tight."

"BB, no," Gren urged as Mekkano entered the cockpit.

"We are secured for hyperdrive, meerkat mimicker."

BB hit the throttles. Belying her scruffy appearance, the Laughing Sow leapt forward and into the gap between the rotating rocks. Sulin looked away, Gren closed his eyes and BB concentrated on the navscreen, jiggling the yoke to pull the ship through the canyon. Pitted, cratered rock passed close by on both sides. He yanked the ship right as the shape of the asteroids produced a hairpin turn.

Taken by surprise, five of the interceptors had fanned out to go round the obstacle. The sixth followed BB into the tunnel. BB checked his rear screen and watched the pilot lose control a split second before smashing into the rocks and evaporating in a ball of fire.

"Poor guy," he muttered.

"I suppose the Millies will hang that one on us, too," Gren said.

"At least you've opened your eyes," BB commented.

Up ahead, the black of space appeared, littered with more asteroids. The Laughing Sow hurtled out of the canyon, and BB hauled back on the yoke, pulling them straight up.

"They're regrouping," Gren reported, "and coming for us."

"You don't say?" BB sneered.

The orange flares of homing missiles sprang from two fighters. BB watched them grow in the rear screen as they neared.

"We're done for," Sulin said, fiddling with her wristphone.

"Not while I'm flying this tub," BB responded.

Another asteroid lay dead ahead. Jamming the throttles wide open, he forced the ship ahead aiming straight for the tumbling rock.

"Pull out, BB," shouted Gren.

BB held his nerve. The rock hurtled towards them, the missiles closed on their engines. With alerts wailing and the closing distance reducing too fast to read on the navscreen, BB jerked the Pig hard right and up. Both missiles, their main target suddenly gone, smashed into the asteroid and created three more from the debris.

"Hyperdrive fully primed," Gren shouted. "We are go for Europa, and I need a change of underwear."

"Complying, dirtbag," said Mekkano and left the cockpit.

BB watched the interceptors closing. More missiles came at them. "Engage hyperdrive," he ordered.

"But, BB, we're still in the asteroid..."

Five missiles filled BB's screen. "Impact, three seconds. DO IT!"

Gren hit the hyperdrive button. The asteroids and stars streaked, the Laughing Sow rushed into the warp and a third of a second later came out with Jupiter filling the forward viewport.

BB checked the screen. "We didn't bring any of their missiles with us."

Sulin wiped imaginary sweat from her brow.

The cockpit door whooshed open and Mekkano glided in carrying a pair of large underpants which he presented to Gren.

"I didn't ask for these," the skipper complained.

"I am compelled to disagree, mighty craphead."

"Mekkano, I did not ask for them."

"Your precise words were, 'we are go for Europa, and I need a change of underwear'. I was simply obeying your instructions, wondrous product of a calamitous IVF experiment."

Gren was an old hand at deception. He knew every trick in the book, including dual registration.

Technically illegal, but a common practice amongst truckers and difficult to trace, it involved registering a ship twice. If a ship was banned from a specific port, the trucker could use the alternate registration as a means of getting round the ban. The authorities would not realise until the ship landed, and even then, they would only become aware of it if the duty manager who had imposed the ban was still with the company and actually on duty.

The Laughing Sow was registered in her official name but at the flick of a few computer switches, she could give out her alternate ID, The Chuckling Pig.

"One has to wonder why you didn't do this earlier," Sulin commented as they approached Europa-10 spaceport having been cleared for lockdown.

"Because I only just thought of it," Gren replied.

In truth, he had never used the alternate registration and even in his worst nightmares, he could never have imagined that he would need it to dodge the Militia and a system-wide arrest warrant.

Even after successfully docking, he worried that the immigration control might raise the alarm when he and BB handed over their ID cards, but the official on duty, looking bored and tired, simply checked the hologram image against the reality of their faces and let them through.

Europa was tagged as the coldest moon in the system. Everyone knew that there were colder bodies: Charon, Pluto's moon, for example, or the satellites of Neptune. The reputation came because of Europa's surface coating of ice. Several miles thick, with a sub-Europan ocean beneath it, it was like being on a sphere manufactured from Sol 3's polar seas.

Inside the bio-bubble enclosing the town of Europa-10 (the tenth largest settlement on the planet) trivia like surface temperatures were irrelevant. The town's 6,000 inhabitants were insulated against anything Europa, or its giant master hanging in the sky, could throw at them, including meteors, comets and rogue asteroids.

Like most extraterrestrial or extra-Martian settlements, life out here, with Jupiter clogging the sky day and night and the sun no more than a bright dot in the unending blackness, was tough. The settlers were mainly miners and engineers, and their families. Many were unmarried; short-termers, determined to stash away large savings from their high wages, before returning to Sol 3 with enough money to think about marrying and starting a family. There were many bars and clubs on the busy streets and when other needs pressed, there were plenty of good time girls to take care of them.

Because of its prime location, so close to the spaceport, the Jupitan Junket was the most popular bar with truckers and other transit visitors. Europan born proprietor, Morgo Mantarin ran the place with an iron hand, using his considerable size and strength, and fists like jackhammers, to quell any trouble before it became serious. What he could not achieve by physical persuasion, he usually settled with blaster guns and rifles. The Federation reserved no penalty for business proprietors firing on troublemakers in defence of their property or family.

"The trouble with Morgo is he doesn't ask enough questions," BB commented as they ambled along the sidewalk from the spaceport arrivals' lobby. "The Fundies could have a full chapter sleeping in his rooms. As long as they pay their bill and don't cause any trouble, Morgo doesn't give a hoot."

"How will he react to you?" Sulin asked as they approached the entrance manned by a Kartonian arthropod.

"He's a reasonable man," BB said. "He'll listen."

"Yes. To me, maybe," Gren commented.

"Good job we brought Mekkano along then, isn't it?" BB replied.

Floating several inches from the ground on his antigrav pads, his security system on full, the bot's single eye turned circles taking in their surroundings, alert to the possibility of attack from all angles.

The Kartonian blocked their way. Over eight feet tall, like a giant roach, its midnight black eyes narrowed on Gren and its rasping voice grated through the air. "Give me your wallet."

Gren blanched. "Have you taken leave of your senses?" he demanded. "My life is yours, if Mekkano will let you take it, but my wallet? Not this side of Europa freezing over."

"Europa is already frozen over," the Kartonian pointed out. "Give me your wallet."

"Has Morgo begun charging for entry or something?" BB demanded, nudging Gren to one side and confronting the Kartonian.

"You, give me your wallet, too."

"No point taking my wallet," BB insisted. "There's nothing in it. Now step aside and let us in."

"Not without your wallet."

BB moved and the Kartonian grabbed him, and Mekkano grabbed the Kartonian.

"The murderous helmet head shall not harm the masterful master of masterousness," the bot insisted.

The Kartonian released BB and brought a hard, claw-like fist down on Mekkano's domed head.

"My titanium upper casing is more resilient than your crab's pincer," Mekkano declared.

"Give me your wallet," said the Kartonian.

"I have no wallet," said Mekkano. "I am a series 12 servobot. I have no need of currency other than the electrical variety. Like this."

Mekkano sent a bolt of electricity through its spindly arms and the Kartonian lit like a Christmas tree. His response was to belt Mekkano on the dome again, which resulted in a further shock from the bot and another retaliatory thump from the Kartonian.

While the battle went on, thump followed by shock followed by thump followed by shock, the three humans watched with interest.

"This could go on all night," Sulin observed.

"Yes. They appear to have the same intellectual grasp of the situation," BB commented.

"What the hell on Io is going on out here?"

The shrill demand came from a slim woman in her middle years, her ferocious eyes whipping quickly round the small group, then swivelling back to rest on BB.

"Well, look what the Scorovian snicker cat dragged in."

"Hi, Mimo," BB greeted. He nodded at the ridiculous fight between bot and Kartonian. "If you call your roach off, we'll get Mekkano to back down."

Mimo Mantarin aimed a vicious kick at one of the Kartonian's legs. "Hey, Veens. Knock it off. Let the bot go."

"I'm not holding the bot. He is me holding."

"Mekkano, alerts off and back off," BB grunted.

"Complying, dimwit," agreed Mekkano and released Veens.

Hands on hips, Mimo took them all in again. "Now will someone explain to me what is going on?"

"He asked for my wallet," Gren complained with a pointing finger at Veens.

"Your wallet?" Mimo rounded on the Kartonian. "You're supposed to ask for ID, not their purse," she snapped.

"I am apologies, mistress," said Kartonian. "I did wrong."

"Maybe, maybe not," Mimo said. "Not with him here, anyway." With a mean eye on BB, she said, "You'd better scram. You and your fat friend are all over the newscasts and Morgo said if you walked into this bar, he'd save the Millies a job and blow your goddamned heads off."

BB shook his head. "Can't do it, Mimo."

"Who can't do it? Morgo can't ice you? You don't wanna put it to the test, sugar."

"No, I mean me and Gren. We can't go. We need to see one of your regulars. Goren Sinto."

"Sinto? Whaddya want with that scum?"

"So you do know him?"

"Sure," replied Mimo. "He's inside right now, shooting pool."

"Then I gotta see him."

"Cool," Mimo agreed. "Then I'll tell him you're here and invite him to come out and talk to you."

Again BB shook his head. "Do that and he'll be out the back door before anyone can stop him. I'm going in, Mimo, and you'd better tell that hothead husband of yours to stay back while I deal with Sinto." He lifted Mimo from the ground, kissed her on the cheek and put her back down again a couple of feet to the right, then walked into the bar. "For a Europan, you were always one of the best, sugar."

Mimo took a couple of seconds to recover. "Morgo will kill him," she gasped and hurried into the building.

"Or he'll kill Morgo," Gren grumbled and followed her.

Sulin fished into her purse. "Mekkano, wait out here."

"Complying, mistressful mistress."

The interior of the Jupitan Junket was as BB remembered it. Low lighting centred on a small stage where a young, scantily-clad woman, so tall she was probably a native Europan, danced in time to bizarre, unmelodic music. A few truckers and others sat at tables either talking amongst themselves, or watching the dancer, and several more patrons propped up the bar.

Behind the bar polishing glasses, pushing the occasional beer to customers, stood Morgo Mantarin. Six feet nine inches tall, huge shoulders, fists the size of hams, his pug ugly face twisted into a permanent mask of displeasure.

Beyond the bar area, four men stood around the pool table. BB gauged the distance at about 20 yards. Long enough for Morgo to make him? He strode across the floor in front of the tables, his head turned to watch the nubile dancer. Morgo would not recognise him from the back.

Skirting the front area, making his way through the dim shadows on the far wall, he glanced across at the entrance where Sulin and Gren were looking for him. Mimo had made her way behind the bar and was talking to her husband. BB couldn't hear, but he knew Mimo well (too well, Morgo would say). She would be distracting her irritable spouse, not alerting him to BB's presence.

He paused at the pool table, waiting for the shortest of the four players to take his shot, assessing the others.

If they were truckers, he did not know them, but they all looked the part. Tall, tough looking, unshaven, unkempt, wearing one-piece jumps suits, much like his own but in different colours, each packing a pistol at the hip.

With a purple stripe rolling into a corner pocket, BB spoke up. "Sinto?"

All concentrated on him. The short guy who had just taken his shot replied. "Who wants to know?"

"Most people call me BB. You Sinto?"

"It depends. If you're looking to do business, I'm your man. If you're a cop, I never heard of him."

BB cracked his knuckles. "It's business. The scum business you got me into."

Sinto jammed a cigar butt into his unshaven mouth. "I never even met you before, pal. Now why don't you git out while you can still walk."

"Not until you tell me why you conned my partner into carrying coronallium back to Sol 3."

"I dunno what you're talking about. Now scram."

"You deaf as well as stupid?" BB demanded. "You're gonna talk to the Millies, Sinto. If I have to break both arms and legs and then drag you there, you're gonna tell 'em it like it is."

Sinto smiled crookedly and turned back to the table. "You know who you're screwing with, dumbass?"

"Yep," replied BB. "A short, smartass who thinks everyone is as gullible as my buddy."

Sinto's hand closed around his pool cue. "No. You're talking to serious trouble."

With venomous speed, he whipped round lashing the cue like whip. BB jumped back and as the cue whistled past him, he put out a hand and caught the butt. It smarted his palm, but he held on and yanked it towards him. Still holding the other end, astonished that anyone could grasp a makeshift weapon travelling at that speed, Sinto staggered forward, and BB head-butted him. Now Sinto staggered back and his three buddies moved. BB spun the cue in his hands and lashed out, catching one under the jaw. A second fell when the cue rattled across his knees. The third stared at the fallen men, then at BB, and then ran.

BB dropped the cue, grabbed Sinto by the jump suit and lifted him off the floor. "Now, scumbag, you wanna come to the Millies under your own steam or do I drag you there in pieces?"

"You're making a big mistake, pal."

"Won't be the first time," BB assured him, "and I bet it won't be the last either." He threw Sinto back against the wall and cracked his knuckles again.

Dazed, shaking his head to clear it, Sinto's right hand went for his blaster. BB gripped his own, and Sinto thought better of it.

"Let's cut a deal," Sinto suggested.

"Only one deal," BB swore. "You clear our name." He unclipped the holster and prepared to draw his blaster. "Either that, or I shine you on and go to Phobos for committing a real crime."

Sinto wiped his hand across his mouth. His pinpoint eyes no longer shone with reassurance but with fear.

BB prepared to draw his pistol.

A sudden roar distracted his attention. "Beatel, I'll kill you."

"Morgo, no," screamed Mimo.

BB half turned to find the giant bulk of Morgo bearing down on him.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Sinto slid out of the corner and ran for the exit.

BB heard Sulin say something before he concentrated on the enraged Europan. "Calm down, Morgo. I only came here for Sinto and he's getting away thanks to you."

"You are dead meat," roared Morgo. "I told you the last time I saw you if you ever set foot in here again, it would be for a funeral. Yours." He raised his massive fist.

"Cool it, Mantarin," Sulin barked. "One more threat and it'll be your funeral, not his."

The furious bartender turned. BB leaned over and looked around Morgo's considerable frame.

At the bar, Sulin stood legs apart, a blaster clamped between both hands, aimed at Morgo's chest.

BB grinned. "Meet Sulin Tassil, Morgo," he said. "She wanted a word with Sinto too. He had her dad thrown in jail and now she's out to nail him."

"Mostly wrong, Beatel," Sulin snapped. "I am special agent Sulin Tassil of the Federation Militia."

"You're a Millie?" Gren demanded. "And you just let Sinto get away."

"Wrong again, Garamine," Sulin said. "I just ordered your bot to stop him and he has Sinto secured outside, and you and your partner are both under arrest until I get this business sorted out.

The cell door clanked open. A Militia guard motioned BB and Gren to stand and follow him.

The guard led them along a narrow corridor of similar cells, up a short flight of steps, through the main reception area, and into a tight, enclosed interview room. He left, closing and locking the door behind him.

"We're still in schtuck, BB," Gren said.

"How so?"

"We may have helped her nail Sinto, but we still carried the coronallium to Sol 3. That's an offence. We're still looking at 25 years on Phobos."

"Unless we can talk our way out of it," BB suggested.

"That's what I was thinking, so let me do the talking."

"I said talk our way out of it, not talk our way into a double life sentence."

Keys turned in the lock, the door opened and Sulin entered carrying her pute and their belongings. She kicked the door shut behind her and sat opposite.

"Right. The pair of you are guilty under the importation of hazardous goods act. You're looking at 15 to 25 on Phobos."

"Listen, Sulin..."

"I'm talking, BB, so be quiet." She paused a moment before going on. "On the plus side, you helped nail Sinto." She leaned back and became more conversational. "He's a senior mover and shaker for the Fundies, and we've been chasing him for the last three years. After the blast on Mercury, the President upped the ante. We had to get Sinto."

"He was behind the Mercury mines explosion?" Gren asked.

"He forwarded the coronallium that fired the neutron disruptor. He used the same stunt he pulled on your pal here, and got a trucker to take it in for hard cash." Sulin frowned. "The trucker was one of those killed in the blast."

BB felt a flash of anger. "If you knew all this, why not haul him in."

"You think we didn't?" Sulin demanded. "He's been taken in for questioning so many times, we're thinking of inviting him to the staff Christmas party. And every time, he brings an army of witnesses to swear he was ten light years away when the alleged transaction took place. The truckers we caught carrying coronallium were either too scared or too dumb to talk. Those who fingered him, and were prepared to testify, never lived long enough. They were iced in a matter of hours." She stared meaningfully at them. "It could happen to you, yet." When it was clear her meaning had sunk in, she went on, "Fortunately, this time it won't do Sinto any good because we were on the trail all the way from Ceres."

Gren blanched. "You mean you were in the bar when he put the proposition to me?"

Sulin nodded. "Not me personally, but one of my colleagues. We knew you were carrying coronallium before you ever left Ceres. We had your flight plan and we were expecting you first at Aberverness and then at Verplemansh. The escape took a little manoeuvring, but you did good, BB."

"What?" BB felt his gorge rising again. "You arranged the escape?"

She smiled for the first time since arresting them. "You really think that hunk of scrap you call a ship could outrun Millie interceptors? And the ground crew only fired with rifles. The lieutenant was under orders to keep his cannon quiet. The pilots from Verplemansh were ordered to let you escape. I knew you'd turn up at Doomy's the minute we froze your bank accounts, and I was waiting there for you."

"But one of your pilots was killed when we left Doomy's," BB protested.

"A drone fighter," Sulin explained. "The others went around the asteroid, but we had to make it convincing, so we sent a bot in after you. Anything and everything to motivate you into going for Sinto."

"Those same fighters fired on us," Gren said.

"Yep, but the pilots were under orders to detonate their missiles before impact. My orders."

"And all for what?" BB grumbled. "To get me to confront Sinto?"

"Yes. BB, you should take heart. You're one of the bravest guys I've ever met. Sinto is no slouch. He's as tough as they come, yet you took on him and three of his buddies, and beat them. If Mantarin hadn't interfered, you'd have had him begging for mercy. As it happens, things turned out okay. We have enough evidence gathered to convict him, and he's singing our song, hoping to cut a deal."

BB snorted. "You just said he was tough as they come."

Sulin smiled. "He is. But I told him that you were looking at twenty-five on Phobos, alongside him, and that you would beat the bejeebers out of him every day for getting you locked up. When I said that, he told us everything. And it's all thanks to you two." She pushed their belongings across the table. "You can go."

BB's eyes lit. "We're free."

She nodded. "Yes, but it comes with a warning." The meaningful eyes rested on Gren. "You're truckers. We don't expect you to be angels, but walk the path as straight and narrow as you can in future."

"I think we came out of that pretty well," Gren said while BB settled into the right hand seat.

"No thanks to you," BB grumbled.

"I dunno," his partner replied. "I still have the ten grand that Sinto paid me."

"Yes," BB responded, "and you owe Doomy a couple of grand and you owe me most of the rest in unpaid wages."

"Ah, now BB..."

"No buts. Soon as we make planetfall, you pay me. Right?"

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say, buddy." Gren clapped his hands like a market trader ready to offer a bargain. "Okay, partner. We have full tanks, full stores and empty holds. Where to? Ceres?"

"And wait in line for another two days?" BB grumbled. "Can't you get us any better work than that?"

"Well," Gren admitted, "while we were waiting for Sulin's people to take us in from the Jupitan Junket, I spoke with Veens, the Kartonian. He tells me there's a big demand for arthropod-friendly furniture on Kartonia. As it happens, I have a contact on Sol 3 who deals in the stuff. He may be looking for a coupla truckers to help with deliveries."

BB fired up the engines. "Sol 3 it is then." He grinned. "Via Doomy's." He jabbed the intercom button. "Mekkano, get up here and clean up this cockpit."

"Complying, meat mangler."

Gren tutted. "We'll have to get that bot seen to, too."

BB broke free of the lockdown and backed the Chuckling Pig away from the dock. "I shouldn't bother. If we're going to Kartonia, leave it to the locals. I'm sure they'll knock some sense into him."

# The Pirates of Penzarc

Beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep...

Bazill Beatel's heavy eyes flickered open. For a moment he was not certain where he was. His head hurt, his stomach churned and although the amount of light coming into his eyes told him they were open, they would not focus and the weight of his lids told him they would prefer to close again.

Someone moved alongside him and that added to his puzzlement. He usually slept alone. Even when he clicked with a hen and took her back to his cabin, she didn't stay overnight, mainly because the Chuckling Pig rarely stayed anywhere overnight. Most of his dates were sent home before dawn.

Beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep...

BB tried to lift his head and found it too heavy. As hangovers went, this was the worst in a long time.

"Can't you shut that noise up?"

To BB's relief, the voice belonged to a female. Not that there was anything wrong with two men sharing a bed in this day, age and galaxy, but that was not BB's persuasion and as an old-fashioned guy, he preferred his bedmates to be human and female.

Beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep...

With a groan, BB reached up a reluctant arm, groped around the control panel and pressed a switch. The holovid player booted up and began to run the latest episode of _Velda & the Styrians_.

The alarm continued to wail, now augmented by the sound of the holovid player coming into action and the delicious Velda kicking alien ass.

BB groped again, and found the R/T switch. Jabbing it, he barked, "Mekkano, what the hell is that alarm?"

The Chuckling Pig's servobot replied, "Hyperdrive ready to cut out, oh sensational cow dung. We will be back in normal space in three minutes, seventeen seconds."

BB shook his head in an effort to clear it. He succeeded in casting zigzag patterns across his retina that almost blinded him again. If nothing else, Mekkano's reply confirmed that he and the mystery woman alongside him were aboard the Chuckling Pig. They had to be or Mekkano wouldn't be there.

"Mekkano, get Gren out of bed."

"Complying, pea-brained portal prodder."

Beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep...

BB tried to roll upright so he could stand, but moved the wrong way and fell off the bunk instead, hitting the floor with a painful thump. Gripping the edge of the double bunk, he hauled himself up, perched on the edge of the mattress and studied the blonde sleeping on the other side of the bunk.

The bits that he could see looked pleasant enough. Naked shoulders, a slender back, arching nicely down to... the edge of the bed linen. The blonde hair was trimmed short and ended at the nape of a slim neck. He raked his memory again, seeing an image of the front half. Finding none, he tried for a name, but that, too, proved fruitless. Who the hell was she?

Beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep...

Holding the edge of the bed to steady himself, he reached again for the R/T switch. "Mekkano, shut that racket up."

"Cannot comply, drunken dunker. Pilot retina scan required."

BB cursed himself; of course it was required. It was a safety measure to prevent lazy truckers handing control to their servobots when coming out of hyperspace.

Suddenly aware of his nudity, he reached for his shorts, pulled them on, and nudged the girl. "You'd better move it, sugar. We're coming out of hyperspace."

She sat up suddenly, and screwed up her eyes against the alcoholic pain. "Hyperspace? Are you out of your mind? I'm due in school at ten."

Beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep...

BB's heart sank. "School? Don't tell me..."

"I'm a teacher," she reassured him. "You remember?"

BB shook his head. "I don't remember much of anything. School, you said. Which school?"

"Ganymede College of Engineering. I teach history. What the hell are we doing in hyperspace?"

BB shook his head again. "Whatever we're doing, I don't think we're going to Ganymede."

"I shouldn't think so, either," she said, swinging her legs out and reaching for her panties. "We were on Io when we met. The Jupitan Junket. You don't go into Hyperspace to get from Io to Ganymede."

Beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep...

She clutched her forehead. "Can't you shut that thing up?"

Sliding his bare feet into deck boots, he made for the door. "I'll be back in a minute."

He waved his hand across the door button. It slid open and he rushed out into the gangway, turning sharp right towards the cockpit.

Ten metres ahead, he waved his hand before a second sensor and the cockpit door slid open.

Consoles before both seats were alive. His main screened flashed HYPERDRIVE FALL OFF IMMINENT in huge red letters.

BB jumped into the right hand seat, swung the overhead visor down and pressed his eyes to it. The sensors read his retina and he jammed the alarm button to shut it off.

The silence that followed was as disturbing as the wailing that preceded it, and served only to remind him of his hangover.

The Jupitan Junket had always been one of his favourite haunts... until the night when Morgo Mantarin caught him doing what he shouldn't be doing with Mimo, Morgo's wife. Since then, he and Gren gave the place as wide a berth as possible, which considering they had most of the galaxy to play with, was as easy done as said.

But they had passed the last few days celebrating the way they helped capture terrorist Goren Sinto, which coincidentally freed them from Militia suspicion and a possible long prison sentence. Better than that, Militia agent, Sulin Tassil was so grateful for their help, she had organised a consignment for them, to get them back into business, and so four days after their release they were back on Io, loading for...

That was where BB's memory ran out.

He couldn't recall whether the ship was loaded, or if it was, he couldn't remember where they were going, he didn't remember meeting the blonde or bringing her back to the Chuckling Pig, and he certainly didn't recall taking off from Io. In fact, he wasn't at all sure he could have taken off from Io. He was too drunk. And if he was drunk, chances were Gren was drunker, so he wouldn't have pulled the ship out of lockdown, either.

He scanned the control panels again. In the centre, the hyperdrive countdown glowed livid red, and stood at 10. It continued on its inexorable way and suddenly reached zero. The sheer black of hyperspace gave way to a star field, and dead ahead was a bright blue diamond shining against the black backdrop of normal space. Wherever they were, it wasn't the Sol system. Sol was a yellow dwarf, this star was bright blue, and if the readouts from the console were correct – and he had no reason to suspect that they were not – this star was much larger than Sol. He was currently 10AU from the star, and yet it looked as large as did Sol from Mars.

"Chuckling Pig from Penzarc Control, do you read?"

It was usually incumbent upon truckers to contact control and not the other way round, BB thought as he slipped on the phones. "Penzarc from Chuckling Pig, reading you five. Apologies for contact failure. Feeling a little ill."

"Chuckling Pig, are you suffering a contagious disease?"

"No. A hangover."

The controller laughed. "Hangovers we can handle. You're currently 10AU. Approach through navsats 296, 177, 59, and 03."

"Roger, Control. Navsats 297, 176..."

"Negative, Chuckling Pig. Navsats, 296, 177, 59 and 03"

BB forced his shaking fingers over the navigation console, punching in the numbers as Control gave them out. When he was through, he checked them. "Readback: navsats 296, 177, 59, 03. Confirm."

"Roger, Chuckling Pig, Readback checks out. Welcome to Penzarc."

BB's fingers moved lazily over the control panels. Somewhere far away, the soft whistle of the sub-light engines cut in and increased. He felt the soft thrust of the engines as the Chuckling Pig began to move through the system. He locked the autopilot onto the series of navigational satellites he had been given, and The Pig rolled slightly picking up the course which would take them towards the planet on which the Penzarc import docks were located. BB had no idea which planet that was. Come to that, he didn't know how many planets there were in the Penzarc system. If he really boiled it down, he wasn't even sure where Penzarc was in relation to the Sol system.

"It can't be far, BB," he muttered to himself.

Travel through hyperspace was quirky. The actual leap was instantaneous, but time dilation meant that for those aboard the ship, time was slowed down by a huge factor, equating to about one hour for every parsec (3.26 light years) travelled. To an observer outside the galaxy, a ship entering a hyperwarp off Jupiter would materialise at its destination in the same instant. But to the crew and passengers, hours, days, weeks would pass in the non-space of the warp.

Checking the Chuckling Pig's chronometers, BB read 7 a.m. As far as his blurred memory could tell him, he and Gren had left the Jupitan Junket sometime around midnight, ship's time, presumably with the blonde tagging along. They must have left Io's lockdown between midnight and one in the morning, so they had been travelling 6 hours, that mean a maximum 6 parsecs, and six parsecs multiplied by 3.26 was... was.... BB snatched up a calculator and punched the numbers in. Nineteen and a half light years, call it 20 for round figures.

At least he knew roughly how far Penzarc was from home, but he still had no clue of the direction they had travelled, and not the foggiest notion of who primed and piloted the ship from Io into the warp.

He flicked on the R/T systems, picked out Gren's cabin and barked, "Get your fat ass out of your pit and get up here."

All that came back was a lot of heavy breathing, and his buddy replying, "Go to hell, BB."

Grenlon Garamine had been awake for almost 20 minutes. Like his partner, he was badly hungover and could remember nothing of the previous night. Unlike BB, he was fully aware of the woman sharing his bed, mainly because she was straddled across him riding like she was going for a gold medal.

There was quite a lot of her. Bulky, not fat, not unlovely, but muscular and very demanding. For a time he worried that her demands might actually shine him on. He was not the fittest of men, nor the slimmest, and his indolent lifestyle left him unprepared for exertion on this scale.

Somewhere between her helping him rise to the occasion and actually climbing on, she had introduced herself as Khala, from Kentaur 5, a world Gren knew well, although he had never met anyone from there quite as aggressive Khala.

When the intercom buzzed and BB's voice sounded, he barely had sufficient breath to say "go to hell, BB," but he felt it was quite appropriate. Whatever pleasure he may have taken from his encounter with Khala, it had become Hell, and he could do with BB there to rescue him.

Finally, at last, spent, while Khala collapsed on him, he began to wonder what it was BB had wanted.

"I'd better get to the cockpit, Khala," he said, encouraging her to roll off.

"Well I hope you put in a better performance there than you did here."

At the front end of the Chuckling Pig, BB was becoming irritated. He jabbed the R/T again and barked, "Gren, whoever she is, get off her, and get your butt up here." Receiving no answer, he switched off the intercom in disgust, and instead cued in the Mekkano's system. "Mekkano, cockpit, now."

"Complying, dipper of the dipstick."

Less than a minute later, the cockpit door swished open and Mekkano glided in. Resembling a dustbin, with a barrel chest full of various cleaning tools, his domed head could turn through 360o which enabled him to clean up behind him, while concentrating his single eye on his master. It could be disturbing for someone with a head as fragile as BB's. A multi-purpose servobot and security model, his verbal responses had been screwed up by a technician whom Gren, nominal Captain of the Chuckling Pig, refused to pay for a routine service. Ever since, the bot would still obey all requests, but returned a tirade of insulting abuse to almost every command.

"You called, masterful meerkat mauler."

"Clean this place up and then get that idle git out of bed."

"Cannot compute 'that idle git'."

"Gren."

"Complying, pile of possum pooh."

The worst thing about his insults, BB thought, was the lack of inflection. As servobots went, Mekkano was from the cheaper end of the scale, meaning his vocal range was limited to begin with, and all his responses, placid or derisive, were delivered in the same grating monotone.

He had the advantage, however, that he moved around on antigrav pads, a few centimetres off the ground, and in total silence; a blessing considering the state of BB's head.

Thinking of his aching head reminded him of the sandpaper taste in his mouth. "And while you're about it, bring me a cup of coffee," he growled.

Dusting the consoles with one mechanical arm, and running a vacuum cleaner over the carpets with another, Mekkano asked, "Would the tired taradiddler prefer cream and sugar?"

"Black and very strong."

"So it shall be, oh mighty violator of virgin visitors." Stowing his cleaning equipment, Mekkano glided out of the cockpit, leaving BB to contemplate his hangover.

It was as bad as he had ever experienced, and that was unusual. When they were working, when they expected to fly out, he usually drank only beer, but it would take an incredible amount of beer to make him feel this bad. It was more like a beer and whiskey chaser hangover. It wasn't his birthday, it wasn't Gren's birthday. Hell, it wasn't even Mekkano's birthday. Neither he nor Gren had got married (as far as he could remember) and they hadn't just won the Jovian Lottery (as far as he could remember), so why had he drunk so much?

He flicked the R/T button again. "Gren, get your fat frame off the hen you're nudging and get it up here, pronto."

The response was a deep groan, followed by a hoarse, "just let me die here."

"If you don't shift it, that may be my next option, but you won't die of natural causes. Now move it."

The cockpit door opened and Mekkano entered. "Your coffee, bad bug bottler."

With a grunt, BB took the cup and swilled down a mouthful. "Ugh. No cream or sugar."

"You specifically requested black and very strong, hungover halfwit."

"Get out."

"Getting out, simpleton."

The bot turned to leave.

"Mekkano, wait."

"Complying."

"Who piloted us away from Io last night?"

"I cannot say, master. I was not here."

BB frowned. "Where were you?"

"In the latrines, where you sent me, forgetful fudger." Mekkano's single eye concentrated on BB's straining face. "Your precise words, my inebriated imbecile, were, 'get out of – of my sight and soak your... your... the head'. I interpreted this as an order to clean the latrines and I carried out your instructions."

"Clear off," BB grumbled.

"Clearing off, soused sausage sinker."

BB looked out through the forward viewport. Had the ice blue ball of Penzarc grown a little larger? Speeds through this kind of system varied according to the instructions of the navigations satellites, but could reach a significant factor of the speed of light. Half a billion kilometres an hour – slightly under half the speed of light – was not beyond the reach of the Chuckling Pig's sub-light engines, although if his brain were in good working order, BB would have preferred to cut in a carefully calculated mini-hyperleap to bring them into orbital range of their destination. He'd need permission to do it, and he'd need the calculations to be spot on otherwise The Pig would end up more of a physical splat than a radar spot. As he felt right now, he couldn't trust himself, so they would have to take the slow lane to Penzarc spaceport... all three hours' worth of it.

He took another mouthful of coffee and his head began to clear. Yesterday. The Jupitan Junket. No... before the Jupitan Junket. What was it he had been told?

The door soughed open again, Gren staggered in and flopped into the left hand seat. "Never, never again," he moaned and reached across for BB's coffee.

BB snatched it back. "Get your own."

The two had been friends since college years, and after graduation, they had invested their life savings in the Chuckling Pig. BB's piloting skills eclipsed most of the best, including the aces of the Militia Interceptor Corps. Gren's flying abilities were distinctly average, but his salesmanship was beyond doubt, even if he did get them into trouble now and then, and between them they made a healthy income hauling goods all over the Sol Quadrant.

Physically, they could not be much different. Both aged 32, where BB stood over two metres, sporting a muscle-packed physique that was as attractive to the hens as it was intimidating to the cocks, Gren was a bare metre and three quarters, expanding at the waistline, and had to sweet-talk both the hens and the cocks to make any progress with the one and avoid trouble with the other.

Gren acted as nominal skipper of the Chuckling Pig; it was his signature that appeared on contracts, dockets, insurance certificates, and so on. The ship was registered in his name. BB, the pilot, chief engineer and head of security, allowed Gren the grandeur of announcing himself as the captain, but he took no orders from his smaller chum.

"Where are we?" Gren asked.

"Penzarc. Just outta hyperspace.

"So how did you get us out of Io? I'm sure you were as drunk as me."

BB frowned. "I took us out of Io? I thought you took us out of Io."

"One of us must have done it," Gren shrugged. "There's a hen in my cabin."

"I know," BB replied. "I heard you giving her one."

Gren shook his head and winced. "I wasn't giving her anything. She was taking. Unusual this. Normally, you're the one who scores."

"I did," BB reported. "There's a slim blonde in my pit."

"And you've given her one?"

"Can't remember. Probably. Be unusual if I didn't."

"Wonder if it was one of them who piloted us out of lockdown," Gren murmured.

BB was not interested in such an academic question. He left his seat. "Hold the fort, Gren. Route's plugged in through the local navsats. I need a shower."

"Roger dodger." Gren reached over and took BB's coffee. "You can get fresh on your way back to your cabin."

Leaving the cockpit, BB retraced his steps to his cabin, stopping off in the tiny galley to grab a fresh mug of coffee and a couple of aspirin. On entering the cabin, he found the blonde up and about, still naked, admiring herself in the mirror.

"Worth admiring, too," BB said. "Listen, sugar, you may think I'm a total banana brain, but I can't remember a thing about last night... not even your name."

"Viktran," she told him, making no effort to cover her nudity. "We met in Morgo Mantarin's place."

Without taking his eyes off her, BB nodded. "I've made some good friends in the Jupitan Junket."

Viktran smiled. "You made this good friend a couple of times last night."

"Damn. And I can't remember."

She smiled. "There's still time if you wanna refresh your memory."

Gren finished the last of BB's coffee, ran a cursory eye over the control console, ensuring everything was as it should be, and after calling Mekkano to the cockpit, picked up the holoweb news channel for the Sol Quadrant.

The headlines made disturbing reading.

RINGLES STRIKES AGAIN.

Pirate Vik Ringles and his crew struck again last week, bringing down a 30,000-ton lugger belonging to Spacefreight, Inc. into the forests of Fornaz 7. By the time the Militia got to the site, the lugger had been stripped of its fuel and cargo, and there was no one to be seen anywhere on the planet. The bodies of the pilot and co-pilot, a man and wife team from the Kentaur system were found tied up in the main hold. Both had been shot in the head. Spacefreight have offered a fifty-thousand credit reward for information leading to the capture of Ringles and his gang.

Gren whistled. "Fifty grand. Just about set us up with a second lugger."

The door opened and Mekkano swished in.

"Mekkano," Gren ordered, "get down into the holds and check the cargo against the manifest."

"Complying, corpulent cohort."

Mekkano backed out again and Gren returned to his holo reading. Space-jacking was always a problem for truckers, but it was not something Gren had ever worried about. BB was bigger and tougher than your everyday pirate, and he was a better shot than most, too. It would be a suicidal pilot who dared take on Baz Beatel.

Vik Ringles, however, was not your everyday pirate, as Gren learned when he read on.

Ringles has terrorised the quadrant for two years, now, hijacking ships as small as luxury cruisers and as large as 100,000 ton bulkers.

" _The man and his crew are quite daring," said Chief of Militia, Krayne Darvon from his San Franangeles office on The Home World. "He's been known to pose as a Militia officer and his ship is rumoured to be disguised as a Militia troop carrier. He even tried hijacking a corvette belonging to the Militia, but our people fought him off. He's also ruthless. He concentrates on commercial traffic, large ships with small crews, and he doesn't care what they're carrying. Food, ores, weapons, machinery, fancy goods, it doesn't matter to Ringles. He'll take it."_

Chief Darvon went on to say that Ringles keeps his identity a closely guarded secret. No known image of the man is available, and invariably, when he hijacks a ship, the crew is murdered, and bots have their memory wiped.

"I could do with someone wiping Mekkano's memory," Gren muttered. "Insulting little git."

Without warning, static burst over the radio, dragging Gren from his reading. "Attention, Chuckling Pig, this is Federation Militia Carrier, Antioch. You are ordered to stop all engines and prepare for boarding."

He looked through the left hand viewport and there it was; a 15,000-ton troop carrier, decked out in the drab grey of the Militia.

Gren made the R/T connection. "Antioch, this is Grenlon Garamine, captain of the Chuckling Pig. What do you want? We're en route to Penzarc 3, we're licensed and we're expected. Repeat, why are you pulling us over?"

"Sorry about this, sir," came the respectful reply from the Antioch, "but it's a routine matter. We've had reports that Vik Ringles' pirates are operating in this system, and we're checking all incoming ships. If you'd care to cut your engines, allow a link bridge, we won't take up more than about twenty minutes of your time."

Gren tutted. "All right. I'd better let Penzarc Control know."

"No need, sir. We've already informed them."

With another annoyed cluck, Gren slid the throttles back to their rest and the far off rumble of the engines died. Fiddling with several sets of controls, he pushed out a link bridge, and watched while the Antioch drew alongside, aligned herself and then projected her link. The two half bridges met in the middle, locked together and as computers aboard the two ships spoke to each other, pressurised. When the console light flashed green, Gren twisted the controls from 'locked' to 'open' and the door on The Pig's side of the two sections rose. When the Antioch raised hers, it would allow a free flow of air between the ships.

Leaving his seat, Gren made his way to the main exit and waited. Three or four men marched along the narrow corridor, all dressed in the familiar black jump suits of the Militia, all armed to the teeth. He hit the door switch and opened it.

"Come on, come on," he urged. "Time's money and I don't wanna be here one second longer than I have to."

He turned back into the Chuckling Pig and found himself facing Khala, his bedmate of only 20 minutes ago. She was grinning evilly, and holding a blaster to his head.

His colour drained. Mustering as much courage as he could, he said, "Are you crazy, woman? The Militia are coming aboard."

Khala laughed and her large breasts, where he had recently buried his face, wobbled beneath her black tunic. "The Militia? I don't think so." She looked over his shoulder and waved. "Hi, Berin, hi guys. Another sucker. Told you this one would be easy, didn't I?"

Gren whirled to face them. His eyes opened wide. On their chests he saw, not the pale blue, zigzag lightning bolt of the Militia, but the black skull and crossbones of a pirate crew.

Berin, the leader, tall, stocky, almost as muscular as BB, his face unshaven, grinned, showing off-white teeth. "I did warn you that Vik Ringles' pirates were in the area."

With one final thrust, BB let his head loll on Viktran's bared breasts and luxuriated in the abandonment of pure hedonism.

"Say what you like but when it comes to curing a hangover, sex takes a lot of beating."

"Hmm," was all Viktran could say.

BB allowed himself a moment's more rest, then made to get up. As he did, the silence struck him. "Odd."

Still connected to and pinned below him, Viktran queried with her eyes.

"The engines have stopped." He reached back and flipped on the R/T. He was about to speak, when Gren's worried voice carried through the speakers.

"I keep telling you, I'm alone. There's no one but me on the ship... well me and the bot, Mekkano, but he's down in the hold where he should be."

Viktran was about speak, but BB shushed her.

"He's lying," Khala declared. "His boss is aboard. Big mother. Calls himself BB."

"BB is not my boss," Gren argued. "He's my partner, but we left him back on Io."

BB snapped off the R/T. "Come on," he urged, reaching into the bedside drawer and pulling out a blaster. "Sounds like we've been boarded." He checked the charge.

"Where are we going?" Viktran asked struggling into a dark jumpsuit.

"Cargo hold. Only place we can hide out." He dragged on his shorts and boots. "Come on."

Sliding his cabin door partly open, he checked the gangway. Clear. Dragging Viktran behind him, he hurried out and to the left, away from the cockpit, and towards the hold. As he reached the end of the corridor, he met a member of the pirate team. BB lashed out a hard fist, and floored the pirate, then pistol-whipped him with the blaster. He took his opponent's pistol, checked the charge and then tucked it into his belt alongside his own. He hurried on, dragging Viktran after him again.

The living quarters of the Chuckling Pig were concentrated into the forward 20 metres at the very top of the ship. The remaining 80 metres, back and below, housed the engines and the vast cargo holds.

Bursting through the cargo door, they were confronted with a 20-metre drop to the floor below and the choice of either a ladder, or the bot elevator, which Mekkano used. The hold spread out before them as far as they could see, about three-quarters full, littered with containers of various shapes and sizes.

Deciding that the ladder was preferable to an elevator designed for a bot of maximum height 1.5 metres, he sent Viktran down ahead of him and followed.

Reaching the deck, BB looked around the hundreds of multi-shaped and sized containers.

"We need to hang back and hide somewhere," he told her. "Just until we can figure out a plan."

"Who are they, BB?" Viktran's face worked worriedly.

"Search me. Pirates? Hijackers? Knowing Gren, it could even be the Militia."

As if to comment, the PA system burst into life. "Bazill Beatel, this is Vik Ringles' crew. We're in control of this ship and we know you're here somewhere. You have five minutes to hand yourself over or we cut your buddy into pieces."

"Pirates," BB said. "Vik Ringles." The previous day's meeting burst into his head, and he smiled to himself. "Well, Ringles can go to hell, and if he wants to meet me face to face, I'll send him to hell. Come on."

He and Viktran continued along the narrow gangways between containers, seeking a vantage point from where they could watch the upper access door without being seen.

BB arrived at a container bearing a hazard warning label. "Just what I need," he said, and took out one of the blasters. "You know how to use one of these?"

She nodded.

"Cover my back while I find what I'm looking for," he said prising open the container door. "Anyone shows up, shoot 'em, but be careful to hit the target. I don't know if The Pig's hull will withstand a blaster bolt.

Stepping inside, he began checking the labels.

"I know it's in here somewhere because I saw it on the manifest."

A click near his left ear stopped him. He straightened up and turned to face Viktran. Her face was split into a broad grin and the blaster was held dead steady in her hand.

She laughed. "Why do people assume that Vik Ringles is a man?"

BB appeared concerned but relaxed.

"Come on out, hun," she invited, backing off.

BB followed at a slower pace.

"I have to say," she went on, "that you were one of the best. I'll never forget you, but after we bring this heap of space junk down on one of the Penzarc asteroids and clean out all the high value stuff, you'll never remember last night. In fact, you won't remember anything ever again."

"You know," BB said conversationally, "you must think I'm really stupid."

Vik's smile faded. "What?"

"I heard the hen talking in the cockpit, and I realised she was the whore we picked up with you at the Jupitan Junket last night. So right way, I figured you and her were in this together. You spiked our drinks, didn't you?"

"A little Kentaurian high dust," she agreed with a nod. "It's more of a hypno-narc than anything. Leaves you with a hell of a hangover, but you're able to follow our instructions. You flew us out of Io perfectly, BB, and we had six hours to kill in hyperspace, so we figured, yeah, let's give you guys some final fun before we rendezvous with the Antioch. Our crew will be dealing with you from now on, and you know something? They're not nice people." She chuckled again and looked him up and down. "Like I said, one of the best."

"And smartest," he told her. "See, Ringles, Gren gets into that kind of drunken state all the time. Do you think I'm stupid enough to carry a fully charged blaster on this ship with an idiot like him around?" He drew the second pistol and aimed at her. "You have my gun, which is empty," he said. "This came from your buddy, and it's fully charged."

Her smile faded momentarily, and alarm spread across her face. She checked the charge, relaxed and the smile returned. "Sorry, BB, but you got your blasters mixed up. This is fully charged."

BB checked the blaster in his hand and his heart sank. How the hell had that happened? It wasn't in the script.

"Now," Vik said, "you can come with me and I'll promise you a quick death when we touch down, or you have the quick death now. Which is it to be?"

A spindly, metal arm reached out and snatched the blaster from her.

"You shall not harm the merciless muckraker of a master," said Mekkano.

BB grinned. "Thanks Mekkano." He smiled at Vik. "Which is it to be? Neither." He landed out with a steel fist and she crumpled to the floor.

In the cockpit, Khala checked the chronometer. "Too bad, Gren. Looks like your buddy has deserted you." She switched on a lethal laser blade. "This is gonna hurt, but look on the bright side. An hour from now, nothing will ever hurt you again."

The R/T burst into life. "Hey, scum. This is BB. Tune in right now."

Gren breathed a sigh of relief. "BB, where the hell are you? They're about to cut me into strips."

"Well, you could do to lose some of that blubber, buddy. Right now, I'm talking to the head goon. I'm down in the cargo hold and I have your boss, Vik Ringles. Tune in the vid channel for them, Gren."

Khala and Berin backed off and nodded to Gren. He turned to the console, hands shaking, and activated the hologram projector. Immediately, a projection of BB, Vik and Mekkano sprang to life about the console.

BB held a blaster to Vik's head. With some kind of apparatus strapped to her back she looked dazed and angry, and there was a large bruise on her jaw. BB turned her around and displayed two canisters strapped to her back, with grey putty between them.

Gren's jaw dropped. "Vik Ringles is a woman?"

"Meanest in the quadrant," Khala confirmed.

BB gestured at the putty. "This is C17, plastic explosive," he declared and then held up a small remote. "Laser control," he declared. "Good over two clicks. Now you don't need me to tell you that if I detonate this thing, your boss and The Pig will be blown to hell, but hang about because it gets worse. The two canisters contain Coronallium A and Coronallium B. They'll mix, we'll get a chain reaction and everything within a one-hundred click radius will be vaporised."

"You're bluffing," Berin challenged.

"Am I? Ringles has just told me that when you make planetfall with The Pig, Gren and I are history. I have nothing to lose, jerk-off."

"Listen to him, Berin," Vik pleaded. "He means it."

Berin spat at the floor. "All right, _jerk-off_ , what's the deal?"

"You get back across the bridge to your ship. I bring Ringles to the port, she crosses, we close and disconnect the bridge. Gren and I fly outta here, but remember, I can still trigger the explosives anything up to two clicks away, so you don't follow. If you do, I'll press the button and we all go to heaven in a big bright bang."

"And how do we know we can trust you?" Berin demanded.

"He's an honest guy," Gren commented.

"I'm not gonna do anything stupid, you dumbass," BB reported. "Remember, if you're close enough for me to detonate the bomb, the chain reaction will take The Pig out, too. I don't care what you do, I don't care how many ships you hi-jack, as long as you leave us be."

"Do it," Vik ordered. "Berin, just do it." She scowled at BB. "We'll meet 'em again sometime."

BB chuckled. "Shouldn't think so, sugar. You're good, but you play too rough for me." He concentrated on the camera. "Well, Berin, do we have a deal or do we all take a minute to kiss our butts goodbye."

Berin fumed. He glowered at Gren, then at Khala, and then at the hologram. "I ain't gonna forget this, Beatel."

"How about another deal, then," BB suggested. "No weapons. Me and you, mano-a-mano. Cos, I'll tell you something. You put down your toys and come up against me, I'll tear off your goddamned head and kick it round the Penzarc system for soccer practice."

Gren gazed weakly up at Berin, his face a cross between a smile of contingency and a plea for mercy. "He means it, Berin. Don't push him. You guys think you're tough, but he eats bigger than you for breakfast."

Berin maintained his glare. "Like I said, I won't forget it." He turned his anger on his troops. Move it. Back across the bridge."

"Good boy," BB congratulated him. "Gren, light the fires while I bring little miss muppet up there."

Instead of taking the metal stairway from the cargo hold, BB and Vik squeezed into the bot elevator.

Designed for one bot at a time, and usually for bots the same height as Mekkano, it was low and cramped, and they had to get down on their knees, BB holding the remote above their heads.

"Try anything, Ringles, and I'll push the button," he warned.

But Vik Ringles, the pirate who had instilled so much fear into so many around the Sol Quadrant, was too afraid for her own existence to try anything, other than a little persuasion.

"We could use a guy like you, BB," she said as the elevator began its slow crawl to the upper level. "You're tough, you know how to fight, you got guts. You could be making a fortune with us instead of bumming around with a loser like Garamine."

"You left out honest," BB said.

"Huh?"

The elevator stopped, the door slid open and he ushered her out.

Following her and standing upright, he said, "I'm tough, I know how to fight, I got guts and I'm honest. And Gren isn't a loser. He's like me. He sails close to the wind, but he's honest. Now move it."

"You don't seriously think we'll let this go, do you? You may get away this time, but we'll be on the lookout for you," Vik promised as they ambled along the corridor towards the main lock where Gren waited for them.

"I'll just have to take that chance, won't I?" BB commented and stopped her at the lock. "Once you're in there," he said, opening it up, "I'll close and lock up. I'll watch you through the port. The second you're the other side of the bridge joint, I close our half and disconnect. If your side isn't closed, you'll get sucked out into vacuum, so you tell your guys to move their asses, and remember, I still got this, and it's good up to two clicks." He held up the remote. "Your broadside cannon can't hit our reactor, so if they fire one shot, I push the button and we're all dog meat."

"No one will fire," she told him gesturing at the apparatus strapped to her back, "but the minute I get this crap off me, we'll come for you, and next time, we'll blow your ass out of the sky."

BB grinned. "That's another chance I'll have to take, isn't it?"

He nudged her onto the bridge and while she walked across, he closed the lock.

"She's right, BB," Gren said. "They'll track us down eventually."

"Let me worry about that," BB advised. "That stuff they fed us last night wore off and I remembered a damn sight more than is good for her."

Gren frowned. "Huh?"

BB did not answer. He watched Vik cross the midway point and then brought down the far door.

"Detach and withdraw bridge," he ordered.

"Yeah, but BB..."

"Get the hell to the cockpit, pull the bridge back and let's get out of here, quick."

On board the Antioch, the moment the bridge was sealed, Berin spun Vik round and began work on the bomb attached to her back.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Vik complained.

"If I don't we ain't gonna know much about it," Berin promised.

"The Pig is pulling away," Khala reported.

Berin teased the plastic explosive apart, seeking the detonator. "Give 'em a two-click start, then get after them. I want to be two point five clicks behind them all the way, until we can get a clear shot at the reactor. I'll blow that mother to kingdom come."

"Concentrate on getting this mother off me, first," Vik ordered.

"I can't find the damn detonator. It has to be in here somewhere."

Again he teased sections of the plastic apart seeking the telltale sign of a detonator cap hidden in its creases and folds. Sweat broke on his brow and dripped from his nose. He sniffed it back up.

"Where the hell..."

A frown crossed his features. He sniffed again. His suspicions grew and he placed his nose to it.

"Goddamn it. I don't believe it."

"Hi, Vik," BB's voice came over the radio. "By now you should have found out that you've been suckered and that the explosive silly putty between those canisters is non-explosive, genuine silly putty. The real thing. The kinda stuff kids play with. The canisters are full of it, too. We're on our way to Penzarc Control and we're about to let them know you're in the area, so if I were you I'd scram. While you still got the chance."

Vik screamed. "Get after those assholes."

Berin leapt into the pilot's seat and jammed the throttles hard forward. The Antioch leapt after the Chuckling Pig.

"They're coming for us, BB," Gren warned.

"I figured they would," his partner replied. Concentrating on his navputer, he tapped in a series of co-ordinates and locked in auto-guidance. The bright blue disc of Penzarc swung to starboard as The Pig veered left out of the system.

"Chuckling Pig, this is Penzarc Control, you are off route. Is there a problem?"

"Ah, no, we're fine thanks, Penzarc," BB replied. "We have a prearranged rendezvous."

"Our schedule has you logged for Penzarc lockdown and..."

BB cut the radio off. "The last thing we need is hassle from them."

"BB," Gren cried, "where the hell are we going? We're off route flying to the middle of nowhere and the Antioch is gaining on us. She's five clicks back. If she gains much more, we'll be in range of her cannon."

BB nodded. "We may have to do a bit of ducking and weaving, pal."

"BB, for God's sake, head for Penzarc. Set up a mini-hyperleap. They'll get the Militia out once they have our report."

"And by then, Ringles and her ship will be the other side of the quadrant. No way. It ends here."

"That's what worries me," Gren wailed.

An orange-red flare erupted from the Antioch's port cannon and rushed towards them.

"Incoming," Gren cried.

"Seen it." With one eye on the growing beacon of destruction, the other on his nav-screen, BB gripped the yoke. A second before the missile struck, he yanked the column hard right and rolled The Pig. The missile overshot.

"Cargo will be everywhere," Gren complained.

"Zero-gee," BB replied. "Centrifugal force will keep it intact."

Another two flares burst from the Antioch's wing cannon. Again BB held his nerve until a split second before eruption, when he dragged the yoke hard back and the missiles shot on harmlessly.

BB reassessed his position, recalculated his route and locked his destination back into the navputer.

"Where the hell are we going?" Gren cried as Mekkano entered the cockpit.

"You'll see," BB promised.

"Is the wondrous wormhole wriggler aware that we are coming under fire?"

"Just get out, Mekkano."

"Complying, ferret fornicator."

"What do you mean, 'I'll see'?" Gren demanded as BB dodged another missile by putting the Chuckling Pig into a lazy roll.

"I told you. When that stuff Ringles fed us wore off, I remembered more than was good for her. I remembered what happened before we hit the Jupitan Junket."

"And?"

A klaxon sounded loud and repeatedly. On screen, a warning flashed up. CHUCKLING PIG, CLEAR THE KILL ZONE.

BB hauled back on the yoke, putting The Pig into a vertical climb. The Antioch responded, but as she began to climb, 16 Militia ships appeared from hyperspace, in a hemispherical formation, and locked onto the pirate ship. Their guns blazed. Antioch returned fire. A crippling shot from the lead Militia cruiser took the pirate ship's engines. They disintegrated and the Antioch hung in the blackness of space, a motionless wreck.

Boarding craft left the Militia ships and homed in on the crippled pirate vessel. Aboard the Chuckling Pig, BB grinned.

"Before we hit the Jupitan Junket, I passed a couple of hours with Sulin," he explained.

"Sulin as in Sulin Tassil, the Militia Special Agent?" Gren asked. "You've been seeing an awful lot of her over the last four days."

"More than most guys get to see of her," BB agreed. "In return for her favours, I had to do her a favour." He gestured at the viewport where the Militia ships closed slowly in on the pirate cruiser. "Lead Vik Ringles into their trap."

Sulin, BB and Gren met in the bar of Penzarc Control Spaceport, where the Militia agent was full of praise for them.

"We arrested one of Ringles' crew on Kentaur a week ago, and spread the word that he'd been killed," she explained to Gren. "In truth he cut a deal. To avoid the atomiser, he told us of Ringles' plan. She was going to hit a high value cargo coming from the Sol System. It was her way of single-fingering the Federation. So we put the word out that the Chuckling Pig was carrying a hi-Val consignment to Penzarc. We knew she'd hit on you either at Doomy's or the Jupitan Junket."

"That explains why Morgo Mantarin was prepared to tolerate us at the Jupitan Junket," Gren said and Sulin nodded.

"We squared him up," she said. "It's surprising how amenable he is when you threaten to bring in the Federation's Internal Revenue Service. We also knew, from our informer, that Ringles would use Kentaurian dust on you. So before you hit the Jupitan Junket, we worked on BB with a few other substances that would prompt him to recall everything once he drank a cup of strong, black coffee."

"And Mekkano brought me a cup of strong, black coffee when we first came outta hyperspace," BB said. "From there, it was a case of simply following Sulin's plan."

The waiter came across, dropped a beer in front of Gren, a cocktail before Sulin and a glass of sparkling water in front of BB.

"So what happens to Ringles and her crew now?" BB asked.

Sulin frowned. "Piracy, murder. Atomiser for all of them, I figure. She'll be on death row for a few years while they go through the appeals, but I can't see her getting off with anything less."

"Good riddance, too," Gren said. "So, right, BB. You gotta make up your mind. Are you working for us or the Militia?"

"I own half the Chuckling Pig, remember," BB said.

"YOU actually own a third of the Chuckling Pig," Gren reminded him. "You're the junior partner." He cast a cynical eye on BB's glass of water. "Put you off your beer, has it?" he demanded and took a slug from his glass. "Can't take it, y'see, Sulin."

"No, Gren," BB warned him. "The Kentaurian dust reacts with alcohol. It takes forty-eight hours to..."

Gren slumped forward and snored.

"...Get it out of your system," BB concluded, lamely.

Sulin signalled the waiter again. When he arrived, she handed over a handful of cash. "Put him in a room for the night and let him sleep it off."

The waiter saluted, then lifted Gren onto his shoulder and carried him away.

"Well, that's got rid of Gren for the night," BB said. "Does that mean it's time for my payoff?"

Sulin gave him a mock-stern stare of disapproval. "You were rewarded before the job."

He leaned over, his lips close to hers. "I thought that was just a down-payment."

# A Kairfree Christmas

The Lervon commander smiled maliciously. "And you, beautiful Velda, will stay here, in chains, until the Lervon forces have overwhelmed and subjugated every human being in the galaxy." Snapping to attention, he turned smartly on his heels, and marched away, slamming the cell door behind him.

Velda glowered after him for a long, bitter moment, before turning her attention to the heavy chains anchoring her wrists to the rough rock of the cell wall.

" _I'll stay here in chains, will I? Let's see what my thought laser has to say about it."_

She closed her eyes. Almost immediately, a beam of pure blue shot from the diamond at the centre of her golden crown. The chain on her left wrist melted away and she switched her aim to the other arm.

Seconds later, free of the chains, she bounded across the cell to the heavy steel door. "Time for the sonorgun," she said to the empty room, and pressed her fingers into her ears while aiming the steel belt across her slim abdomen at the obstruction. A high-pitched whine hit the door and blasted it away.

Cold determination overtook her pretty features as she tied her flowing blonde hair into a ponytail. "Now let's see who rules the galaxy..."

The credits began to roll and the announcer declared, _"Next time on Velda & the Lervons..."_

"Gren, knock that thing off and download the manifest, will you."

Grenlon Garamine, nominal skipper of The Chuckling Pig, registered his pal's words, and came back to reality. He switched off his portable holovid set, and in a voice brimming with adoration, said, "I love that Velda." He gestured through the viewport at Veldor Spaceport. "She comes from this planet, you know."

"So does the dock foreman, and he's waiting for the cargo manifest."

Gren concentrated on the display console. With a contempt born of familiarity, his fingers danced on the various switches to prepare the manifest for download. He beamed a broad smile across the cockpit. "I feel a bit like Santa."

In the right hand seat, his co-pilot and business partner, Bazill Beatel, known to all and sundry as BB, was busy shutting down the ship's systems. Locking down the ten-ton magno-anchors, he glanced across at his buddy. "So Santa's sleigh is fitted with hyperlight engines and autonav radar, is it?"

Jabbing the button so the consignment manifest could be downloaded to the spaceport's inbound cargo office, Gren tutted. "You know what I mean. It's four days to Christmas and we're bringing all sorts of goodies to Veldor. Just the way Santa does."

"Gren, Santa delivers toys to the kids," BB pointed out. "We're carrying chocolate eggs for Easter, several hundred tons of phosphate fertiliser, a thousand tons of steel bar, a couple of freezer containers and countless bot spares."

"And beer." Gren smacked his lips. "You forgot the beer."

"I never forget the beer." BB jabbed his R/T button. "Veldor City Spaceport, from Chuckling Pig, You should have the manifest, and we're ready for the bots."

"Roger, Chuckling Pig. You are number one for discharge. The bots are on the way to you."

BB hit a few more keys, shutting down more of the ship's systems. "You're the one who forgets the beer," he said without taking his eyes from the touchscreen. "Especially when it's your round."

"I've paid for plenty of beers," Gren protested. Just as quickly, his chubby features split into a broad grin. "But I've never had a beer on Veldor before." He smacked his lips at the thought.

"It tastes no different to anywhere else."

"BB, this planet is the playground of the quadrant. And we've nothing to do until after the holidays. Christmas on Veldor. Christmas near Velda. It's my dream."

BB glanced through the viewport and got at least a tingle of the excitement his buddy felt. Beyond the laminated, double glass, stood Veldor City Spaceport, a line of cargo bots making their way across the concrete to start work on the hold of The Chuckling Pig. The sun had not yet risen above the buildings, but the golden glow of the coming day filled the eastern horizon... or, at least, BB assumed it was the eastern horizon. It was on most worlds.

Palm trees, silhouetted against the growing dawn swayed in a light breeze and The Pig's external temperature sensors indicated a balmy seventeen degrees. Beyond the docks were the welcoming lights of Veldor's inbound passenger terminal and past that, he could make out the freeway, with flivvers cruising along, their headlights cutting into the pink dawn: early starters in the local rush hour. They did not appear to be moving too fast. No one rushed on Veldor. Of all the planets in the nearer star systems, Veldor was the next best thing to Sol 3.

"It's probably better than Sol 3," Gren said, when BB commented on it. "We think Sol 3 is the best because it's our home world, but Veldor has the edge on us with the weather. You don't get rain here."

"Because we're in Veldor's subtropical zone, you zoon," BB said and, tossing his log back into its slot, unclipped his harness. "If you go further north or south, it rains regular. Just like it does back home." He jabbed the R/T. "Mekkano. Cockpit. Now."

"Complying, cretinous carbuncle of the co-pilot's chair."

Gren tutted and on a visual prompt from ground control, flipped a switch to open the hold doors for the cargo bots. "Time we got that bot in and had his vocal responses reprogrammed."

BB chuckled. "I dunno. Some of them are quite funny."

"If I could get my hands on the tech who reprogrammed him... I'd... I'd... I'd give him a good telling off."

"You should have paid him," BB said as he threw off his headset.

"I did pay him."

His fingers picking out the keyboard to update his pilot's log, BB said, "I know you did, but the first time, you paid him in Kartonian Whorls and told him that the exchange rate was ten to one. It wasn't. It was one hundred to one, and instead of picking up a hundred bucks, he ended up with ten."

"Is it my fault the Kartonian economy collapsed?"

"Gren, you lied. Worse than that when he came back, you offered him Silenian Quernos, and you told them that one querno was worth two dollars, but it wasn't, was it?"

"Yes it was."

"But there's no exchange mechanism for the Querno so he can't spend them unless he actually goes to Silenia, and no one in his right mind goes there... well, no one but us dumb truckers. It's eighty light years away and nothing but a piece of rock with a few tribes living on it. Even the Commonwealth only trade by barter."

The cockpit door slid open and Mekkano glided in, his all-seeing, single eye rotating through 360o, taking in everything around him.

Addressing BB, he said, "Muscular master, could we tell the insensate senior officer that it is customary to eat breakfast, not spread it across the floor of his cabin?"

"Bog off, Mekkano," Gren snapped.

"Bogging off, corpulent crackpot."

"Stay put, Mekkano."

"Staying put, chief digit dunker."

BB smiled at Gren's scowl. "I still think he's funny."

The bot resembled a squat dustbin floating six inches off the floor. Sixteen years old, part and parcel of the deal which saw them become owners of The Chuckling Pig, some sophisticated reprogramming had seen Mekkano upgraded to one of the most advanced servobots on the market. He may not look like much, but Mekkano carried out his duties as ship's engineer, cook, domestic assistant, general systems advisor and defence mechanism with pinpoint efficiency, even if his verbal efforts were derogatory.

"What is it you wish of me, my fat, farting führer?"

Gren scowled again. "Watch your lip."

"It is impossible for me to watch my lip, mordant mauler of mindless minions, because I have no lip to watch, as the rotund rogerer of frightening females would realise were he to open his idle eyes and look."

"Much more out of you and I'll sell you for scrap," Gren warned.

BB grinned. "I thought you liked some of his responses."

"No. That was you," Gren argued. "I don't even understand most of them. Mekkano, clean this place up."

"Complying, obese orang-utan."

Gren clapped his hands together like a trader about to offer a deal. "Right. How's about we mosey on over to the truckstop, grab a bite of breakfast, put the tin can on charge," he gestured at Mekkano as the tin can in question, "and then we can wander down to the beach for a couple of hours?"

"Sounds like a plan to me," BB agreed. "I'll just get my beach gear."

As he left the cockpit, Gren looked down at Mekkano's squat figure now running a duster over BB's console. "He has beach gear?"

"It is incumbent on the wondrous, well-built master BB to bare his biceps for the booby-full babes of the beach in an effort to coerce conjunction with them," Mekkano declared without pausing in his dusting. "It is by such frolicking fornication, oh furtive father figure, that the master BB seeks to ensure the continuation of the human species, by spreading his succulent seed around the Sallys and Susannahs in the spaceports of the galactic quadrant."

Gren's eyebrows shot up. "Where did you get all that?"

"Your diary, tubby tosspot."

"You've read my diary?" Gren almost exploded. "That's supposed to be private."

"Why then did you dictate it to me to store in my long-term memory, mercurial mindless one?"

Gren said nothing. Mekkano had a habit of asking questions almost as awkward as those the Militia posed. "Just shut up and get on with your cleaning."

"Shutting up and getting on, diminutive dunderhead."

BB returned, wearing a T-shirt, shorts and carrying a small backpack. "Swimming shorts and a towel," he said. "Who needs anything more for the beach?"

"No wallet?" Gren asked.

"I thought we'd use yours."

Trying to swallow the last of his cold coffee, Gren almost choked. "Use mine?"

"You always have more money than me," BB pointed out. "That's because you never transfer any of our profits into my bank account."

"Yes, but, BB—"

"Right now, I'm broke. I think I have about a dollar fifty to my name. Tell you what; swing me a coupla hundred and I'll pay for breakfast."

Gren threw his beaker into the atomiser. There came a grumbling and clanking, followed by a roo-oosh as the cup disintegrated into its atomic constituents and was fed along to the fuel chambers where it would help supply heating for the forward cabins and cockpit.

Gren stared at the departed cup. "Now look what you've made me do. I've had that beaker for years. We go everywhere together, me and that beaker."

"Well make sure you've mentioned me in your will before you jump into the atomiser," BB ordered.

Ignoring the jibe, and bringing the debate back to where they left it off, Gren whined, "You don't need a coupla hundred dollars for breakfast. It costs ten dollars, tops. And that's for the both of us."

"There are other things besides food, Gren," BB retorted. "We'll be here over Christmas, remember. I'll need aftershave, dames, condoms, dames, dinner for two, dames—"

"Dinner for two is food."

"Yeah well I need to keep my energy levels up for the dames." BB held out his hand and snapped his finger. "Two hundred'll do to be going on with... Oh. Wait. Better make it three. I may hit the casino for ten minutes."

Gren dug out his billfold. "Ten minutes?"

"With my luck, that's how long it takes to blow a full hundred."

His portly pal handed over three, 100-dollar bills. "Why do I get the feeling that I'm being reamed?"

BB took the money, folded it and slipped into the upper pocket of his jump suit. "If you're being reamed, you're doing it wrong. Let's go. Mekkano, with me."

"Complying, dictatorial dork."

*

"I am the biggest thing on this planet," Velda Velorium declared. "I have a right to maximum protection, I have a right to see every man and woman in the Militia looking for Skillthorn."

Seated across from her, Oka Nasceen, President of the planet Veldor, considered the superstar and privately decided that the biggest thing about her was her pneumatic bosom.

Thirty-six years old, three times married, the platinum blonde star of the quadrant's most successful holovision series _Velda & the Lervons_, Velda was known for her self-centred egomania and tantrums... and her pneumatic bosom. She was far and away the richest person on the planet, and it was rumoured that she could make or break politicians. Nasceen didn't know for sure. She had publicly supported him at the last election but his landslide victory could equally have been the result of the previous incumbent's disastrous tax policies, which had seen most people face a five percent hike, while the stars of the holovision industry had gained a two percent cut. According to Nasceen's estimates, Velda had taken an unexpected pay rise of about $800,000 a year as a result of that cut, which made her support for him all the more surprising.

Or she would have had a pay rise were it not for that fact that most of her annual pay packet was salted away on some tax haven world. According to the VIRS (the Veldor Internal Revenue Service) Velda's annual earnings were forty thousand dollars, not forty million.

And now this same overpaid bitch, confronted with death threats from the notorious space pirate, Rinja Skillthorn, was demanding a round-the-clock Militia guard, and the entire resources of the Veldor law enforcement agencies turned over to tracking down Skillthorn and bringing him to book. The Commonwealth Security Agency, a much larger organisation than Veldor's Militia, had been seeking Skillthorn for five years and they'd had no joy.

But how did you get the message across to this self-obsessed celebrity?

At the age of forty-nine, with a background as a venture capitalist, Nasceen had been in politics, local and planetary, for the last twenty years, and he was shrewd enough not to argue directly with the likes of Velda. He understood that behind the glamour and the vast wealth, was a simple bimbo who knew less about the workings of galactic politics than she did about the workings of a holocam recorder, and Nasceen was willing to bet she knew nothing about holocam recorders. He was eight months from re-election and the polls were not good. He needed something to lift his ratings, and if there was one thing calculated to raise his approval amongst the voters, it was a threat to their beloved Velda, and his handling of that threat.

"Velda, you have my personal assurance that this Skillthorn won't get within five miles of you. I guarantee that we will have him under lock and key before the New Year."

She snapped to her feet, her voluminous breasts barely moving as she did so. Nasceen wondered for a moment whether they were false. Surely real ones would have wobbled? He decided it was safer not to ask.

"He'd better be, or you can kiss goodbye to your chances next year, Mr President." She snapped her fingers at her security entourage as she headed for the door. "With me."

Nasceen watched her shapely behind, visible through the narrow gap between two of her security men, wiggle out the door, and as it closed, he picked up his holocom. Setting it to absolute privacy, he punched in the number and waited.

As a politician, he was used to taking credit for everything and shouldering responsibility onto subordinates, but his latest plan had not been his. It was the work of his personal assistant, Kreela Corune, even though Kree probably did not realise it.

Ms Corune, a viper-ish woman who had been Nasceen's aide through and since the last victorious election, had been researching general complaints about Velda's low tax liability.

"When we look deeper into it, things are very complicated," Kreela had said. "Velda does, indeed, bring in dollars. On the order of two hundred million every year. But most of the money is hers and it's siphoned off into tax havens, like the Proximita Bank of Kentaur Five. The production company, which she owns by the way, pays its taxes here on Veldor, but they amount to just a few million dollars, because her salary is so ridiculously high, but as I've already pointed out, that is siphoned away. By the time her lawyers and accountants have done with it, her personal tax bill is usually less than one million, and that is on _all_ her activities, not just her salary."

Nasceen had been surprised. "A single million? That's disgraceful, Kree." Even as he said it, Nasceen wondered if Velda's tax advisors could do anything for him.

"If the press gets hold of this, Mr President, it will reflect on you." Kree chuckled humourlessly. "Pity she can't die while you're in office, sir."

That was the point where the idea first began to germinate. "How come?" he had asked.

"Let's play a game, sir, where Velda is dead. We set up a shrine to her here on Veldor. We could do that for less than two hundred thousand dollars." A twinkle came to Kree's ageing eyes. "Do you know how many visitors would come to visit her shrine every year?"

Nasceen ran a thoughtful hand over the stubble on his chin. "Millions?"

"And millions," Kree agreed. "They'll need rooms, they'll need meals, they'll need souvenirs. Our five percent sales tax will be worth not just millions or billions but trillions."

Nasceen's eyes brightened. "Landing fees at the spaceport."

"Fuel duty on the cabs bringing them in from the spaceport," Kree said.

"Visitor visa fees. Fifty dollars each, they'll bring in a fortune." The president smiled avariciously at the mental imagery.

Across the desk, the smile disappeared from Kree's lips. "It's a hypothetical exercise, Mr President. Velda isn't dead and she's not really going to die."

Nasceen laughed it off. "No, no. Of course not. I just got carried away for a moment. After all, we're allowed to daydream, aren't we...?"

An unshaven face appeared above the holocom, and brought Nasceen back from his memories of that meeting.

"Are we all set?"

Rinja Skillthorn nodded. "I'm ready here. Are my guys on the ball over there?"

"Yep. Remember, Skillthorn, you take no action until you get her off Kairfree. You gotta make it look good. Don't just hijack her and kill her. Negotiate with the cops on Kairfree. You know what they're like. Complete wasters. When we're ready to put on the show, we'll let you know, and you can blow her out the airlock in her pants and bra before you disappear. The money will be with you after you leave Kairfree."

"It better be, Nasceen. If this goes wrong, you're going down with us."

Nasceen broke the connection and smiled. Going down? Hardly.

Pressing the appropriate keys on his holoplayer, he ran the pre-prepared vid which showed Velda held by two of Skillthorn's sidekicks, while Skillthorn himself pumped needle bolts into her.

When the general population of Veldor saw that, there would be a huge outcry. Skillthorn would be taken out, and not by those hopeless goons on Kairfree, but by the Veldor military. Velda would be gone for real, Skillthorn and his sidekicks would be history, the shrine would become a reality and the boost to Veldor's economy would kick Nasceen's personal ratings into orbit.

There was Kreela to think about. A clever woman, capable of putting two and two together and coming up with awkward questions and answers. She needed to be taken care of but that was in hand. In fact...

Nasceen checked his chronometer. Ten o'clock. If things were going to plan, she would have had an unfortunate and fatal accident on the freeway about ten minutes ago.

Suppressing his excitement, he activated the holocom again. Time to order a wreath for Ms Corune.

***

Velda Death Threats: Latest

The headline screamed from a public holoprojector. Pausing by the newsstand, Gren jammed a dollar into the coin slot, hooked up his portable holocom and downloaded the news.

"She comes from here, you know," he said, plugging in his earpiece and activating the palmtop projection software.

"That's twice you've told me," BB said and walked on.

The newscast leapt into the air before him and while Gren turned his attention to it, BB ambled along, gazing wistfully across the road to the beach and the sparkling, crystal clear, blue waters of Veldor's ocean beyond the sun-baked sands.

The galactic-renowned actress, Velda Velorium (BB was certain it was a stage name) star of the long-running holovid series, _Velda & the Lervons_, was indeed a native of this world. A blonde bombshell with all her bits surgically enhanced, she romped around studio-designed sets only half dressed most of the time, knocking hell out of the Lervons, that fictitious alien race which would dominate and enslave all other species given half a chance. BB had often thought he would give Velda a serious seeing to if he had half a chance.

Utilising martial arts which were thousands of years old, wielding weapons that hadn't yet been invented, Velda stood in the Lervons' way. Class, wealth and complete obscurity stood in BB's. The whole of the galaxy knew Velda. No one had ever heard of Bazill Beatel, aside from a handful of space truckers and a few Militia officers, and even the Militia knew him only because of the number of tickets they'd given him for one offence or another.

The life of a space trucker bore no resemblance to that of a holovid megababe.

Breakfast in the truckers' diner at the spaceport had been better than adequate, and from there they had taken a flivvercab to Veldor City and the sea front, where they now strolled along, enjoying a refreshing breeze and the warming sun. Up ahead a crowd had gathered outside the Veldorian Grand Imperial Hotel, and BB could only surmise that someone important was either due to arrive or leave.

The thud of feet from behind told him Gren was hurrying to catch up.

"Hey," Gren gasped, "this is serious stuff, BB."

"What is? The price of ice cream?"

"No. These threats to Velda... what about the price of ice cream?"

"It's double what we pay back home."

"It's because they have to import it. You should know. We had two freezer containers of it aboard The Pig. Anyway, never mind ice cream. It's these death threats on Velda. Some bozo called Rinja Skillthorn has threatened to kidnap and murder her unless Veldor City pays four hundred million dollars." Gren's face, already bathed in sweat, creased into a mask of worry. "The locals are worried as hell. She's Veldor's only serious export. She's a god on this world."

"Goddess," BB corrected.

"What?"

"You described her as a god but she's a goddess."

"God, goddess, what's the difference?" Gren fumed.

BB paused and shook his head. "One's male, the other's female, and if you don't know the difference at your age, it's time we had a long talk. Mekkano, educate him."

"Complying, beefcake berk." Mekkano's single eye swivelled to accommodate Gren. "Gender is decided at conception and is dependent on the chromosome structure of the fertilising sperm. As the infant grows within the mother, the difference becomes more—"

"Mekkano, shut up," Gren ordered.

"Complying, chunky chops."

Ignoring Mekkano, Gren said, "BB, you're nitpicking. The local yokels are taking these threats seriously. There's a twenty-four hour guard on Velda and her entourage."

"Considering the cost of all that security, wouldn't it be cheaper to pay this stillborn?" BB asked.

"Skillthorn not stillborn," Gren corrected him. "I don't think security is quite that expensive, but anyway, there's a principle involved. We can't have guys like this blackmailing us."

"Blackmailing us?" BB's eyebrows rose. "You're from Sol 3, not Veldor."

Gren's malleable features assumed a look of almost pious reverence. "Velda has no bigger devotee than me."

The crowd near the hotel entrance blocked off most of the sidewalk. BB stepped out towards the road to skirt round it and the limoflivver parked there.

"Where are you going?" Gren demanded, hurrying to keep up with his pal's longer stride.

"The casino. It's the other side of the hotel."

As he came level with the front of the crowd, a large hand landed flat on his chest.

"Stand back," a gruff voice commanded.

BB looked down at the hand, then up at a brutal, bearded face, then back down at the hand again. Gripping it, he prised it way from his chest, then stared up into piggy eyes and a flattened nose above the beard.

"Do that again and I'll bite your hand off," he warned.

The mouth split into a grimace baring a gap in his front upper teeth. "I told you to stand back, jerk off. Velda is coming through."

"And I gently hinted that you should learn some manners. Call me a jerk off again and I'll jerk our head off your shoulders and ram it up your butt."

The bodyguard grabbed at BB's T-Shirt. BB shrugged him off and head-butted him. The guard sank, BB went after him. While he tussled on the ground, he was dimly aware of a large-breasted blonde leading a small clutch of people from the hotel.

A second guard grabbed him, tried to yank him upright. BB hammered his fist into the guard's shin and he, too sank, clutching his leg and howling. Leaping to his feet, BB dragged the groggy first guard up and drew back his fist. The click of a pistol in his right ear stopped him.

"Let him go. You're under arrest."

BB glanced to his right, down the barrel of a blaster, beyond which was the rigid arm, and beyond that the helmeted face of a mean Militiaman.

He let go of the guard, who sank to the ground again. Looking beyond the Militia officer, BB found Velda Velorium gawping at the mess he had made of her security team.

"Did I ever tell you, I watch all your shows?" he asked while the Militia handcuffed him.

She glared back, opened her mouth and screamed, "Get him off this planet."

*

The Chuckling Pig burst out of hyperspace high above the plane of the ecliptic, and above the asteroid belt, out of the way of rogue rocks or known comets. With Sol filling one half of the sky and Jupiter the other half, BB tilted them toward the asteroid fields, and locked on to the nearest navsat.

While he plotted their course, Gren got on the horn to their favourite eatery, Doomy's Choke 'n' Go. "Doomy, this The Pig, inbound, you got your ears on?"

There was a brief delay before a crusty, gravelly voice came back. "The Pig? Which pig?"

"Don't play games, my man," Gren laughed. "There is only one Pig in the System. The Chuckling Pig. It's BB and Gren inbound. Give us a lockdown."

"Hold on, buddy." Another pause, longer this time. "Gren, I have lock forty-two available just for you. How long?"

Gren checked the readouts as BB continued to program their route. "Twenty minutes."

"I'll have coffee on the go. Oh, and remember, we put our trust in God, but you pay cash."

Gren killed the radio and glanced across the cockpit at his pal.

Both he and BB were natives of Verplemansh, that vast city in the northwest of what had once been known as England. They had been friends since their days at the Verplemansh College of Astronautics, where BB had excelled as pilot, and Gren's head for business had earned him mentions in many dispatches. Less likely to take risks than BB, Gren had graduated as a commercial pilot, licensed to handle anything from small shuttles to Class A spaceliners. BB had the same qualifications, but while Gren concentrated on the business side of commercial spaceflight, BB had taken extra courses in military craft, and was also qualified to fly interceptor fighters. Not that he had any intentions of ever joining the military: he simply loved flying spacecraft of all shapes and sizes.

On graduation, they sank their savings into The Chuckling Pig, a 10,000-ton lugger, on sale at a knockdown price after the original owner was imprisoned for drug smuggling. She came complete with Mekkano, and upon taking delivery, Chuckling Pig Interstellar Haulage was born.

They made money, albeit the bulk of it in Gren's account. They travelled the quadrant living aboard The Chuckling Pig, which was useful since aside from their respective parents' homes in Verplemansh, neither of them had a permanent address, and they remained good friends.

Yet there were times, Gren reflected, when BB, known for his physical attributes and ability to get into a brawl at the drop of a hat, stretched that friendship almost to breaking point. And the business on Veldor, home of Gren's most revered heroine, was as close as they'd ever come to dissolving their partnership.

Although BB quickly proved that he was not a part of Skillthorn's setup, the Veldorian courts took a dim view of his actions, insisting that he had compromised the safety and security of the planet's most important person. The case was fast-tracked and he appeared before the local judge within an hour of the incident. Having been warned that he faced a lengthy jail sentence if he didn't co-operate, BB reluctantly pleaded guilty, and was fined $1,000 for a breach of the peace, whereupon, at the insistence of Velda, he, Gren and The Chuckling Pig were ordered to leave Veldor and never return. They were not even allowed to find a return consignment. The ship was unloaded in record time, and they were ordered off the planet as quickly as possible.

"I can't believe how fast they got us out of there. They even cleared a priority corridor for us," Gren complained as Doomy's hoved into view. "That's something they only do for the President and visiting royalty."

"And Velda."

"Velda goes without saying."

Easing back on the throttles as they approached the lock at Doomy's, BB commented, "You're only annoyed because you had to pay the fine."

"No I am not. I missed out on seeing Velda."

"You saw her. From about six feet away."

"Yes. I saw her screaming abuse at you and demanding that we be thrown off the planet." Gren sulked as the nose of the pig nudged into the invisible biobubble lock. "But you are right. I am annoyed at having to hand over a thousand bucks on your behalf. How many more times do I have to bail you out, BB?"

"Shut down procedures," BB said. "Lower magno-anchors."

Gren pulled a switched and the ten-ton anchors dropped from the belly of the ship to the steel plates below. They made no sound in the vacuum side of Doomy's biobubble, but the reverberations of their fall were felt throughout The Chuckling Pig's hull.

"If you paid me my share of the profits, I could bail myself out," BB insisted.

"Don't evade the issue," Gren grumbled. "Your temper costs us a lot of money, BB."

BB unclipped his harness. "Let's get something to eat." He jabbed the intercom button. "Mekkano, get out and plug yourself into Doomy's charge point."

"Complying, malignant muff muncher."

With an irritated cluck, Gren, too unfastened his harness and followed BB from the cockpit.

***

Of Doomy's Diner, Gren could often be heard to say, "The prices ain't cheap, but the food's good, we can charge Mekkano for free, which saves on The Pig's power reserves, and BB has scored with the hens there more times than at any other spaceport."

For fifteen years, Pyot Doomister had run the place on a chunk of rock designated only as Asteroid 97887.

Known amongst the truckers as Doomy's Choke 'n' Go, it was home to Doomy, his wife, Edrina, and a few dozen servobots that handled cleaning, cooking and delivering meals as well as assisting with stock and fuel deliveries. With seventy lockdown points where the truckers could nose into the biobubble surrounding the place, each equipped with plasma and stripped proton injection nozzles for refuelling, it was set up to cater for all traffic, local, system and interstellar.

It was also a regular supply point for The Pig. On their way out of the Sol System to any planet in the quadrant, Gren and BB would stop by Doomy's, take a meal, stock up the larders and fuel tanks, and Gren always took advantage of the free bot-charging service. On their way back from any planet in the quadrant, they would again stop at Doomy's and restock.

Despite its location on an irregular lump of rock five miles wide by two across, tumbling around in the asteroid belt, Doomy never worried about the potential for robbery. His bots, like all such creatures, were programmed not to harm human beings, but they were capable of restraining would-be attackers, and anyway there were usually enough truckers in residence to put off any sane thief or gang of pirates. Truckers may be loners by nature, but as a support team, Doomy could not ask for better.

The man himself was poring over the holovid news, when BB and Gren entered the vast and largely empty dining area. His wizened face belied his real age of fifty-six, lending him the appearance of a man of eighty. It was an effect enhanced by his gnarled and lumpy hands, and the slight stoop to his walk, a product, so he claimed of all those years bending to retrieve plates from the hot cupboards below the counter.

When the crew of The Chuckling Pig entered, he reached for the coffee pot, poured out two cups, and topped up his own.

"Two dollars," he said, holding out a hand to Gren.

Grumbling at the exorbitant price, Gren handed over the money.

"What's new, guys?" Doomy asked, ringing up the cash register and dropping the money in.

BB scowled and rubbed the bruise just above his right eye. "You had to ask, didn't you?"

Over coffee and a light meal of bacon and eggs, they reconstructed the tale of their ejection from Veldor, and Doomy clucked and tutted and nodded sympathetically at the appropriate points, while ensuring he did not forget the few other customers in the diner.

Raising his voice above the sound of Edrina swearing at the bots in the kitchen, Doomy finally said, "So you're home for Christmas, huh?"

Gren sneered. "Christmas on Sol 3. Who needs it? I shoulda been on Veldor. I shoulda been near _her_. And I woulda been if it wasn't for this galoot." He jerked an angry thumb at BB.

Doomy topped up their coffee. "What about you, BB? Staying with your folks for the holidays?"

"Looks like it. I'm no different to shortarse. I'd have preferred Veldor." He, too, sighed. "Aside from odd visits, I haven't been home for years."

"Verplemansh doesn't have much to recommend it," Gren said gloomily.

BB looked sourly at him. "Cold and miserable. So's Verplemansh."

Doomy chuckled. "What you need is a load out somewhere."

Gren snorted. "This close to Christmas? No chance. Every company in the Sol System is ready to shut down for the holidays."

"Not quite everyone." Doomy leaned closer to them, maintaining confidentiality. "Spider Joe was in earlier. He'd been offered a load. Consolidated on Europa. Six thousand tons, all up. Varied goods, no haz-cargo. Consolidated are guaranteeing you'll be loaded and rolling out by Christmas Eve, and they're paying top dollar."

"Then why didn't Spider snap it up?" Gren demanded.

"Too near Christmas." Doomy's shifty eyes looked one way then the other. "Anyway, it's going to Kairfree."

BB groaned. "You know what they're like on Kairfree. So laid back they're almost horizontal. We could be there until the end of January."

"Not so. According to Spider, the people on Kairfree need some of the gear, so they're guaranteeing discharge within the day. And Consolidated are willing to make sure of that by putting the urgent goods right at the head of the hold. The bots on Kairfree will have to unload and sign off the non-urgent to get at the urgent. Your biggest wait would be the loading at Consolidated. It's scheduled for departure on Christmas Eve."

BB shrugged. "In that case, like Gren said, why has no one taken it?"

"It's Christmas," Doomy pointed out. "How many truckers will be looking to get out of the Sol System on Christmas Eve?"

"Those who come from other systems," Gren declared.

Doomy considered this. "True. But how many will be looking to go to Kairfree?"

"Those who come from Kairfree," BB replied.

Doomy fell silent once more, while he thought about this. Eventually, he said, "Well, all I'm telling you is what Spider told me. And, hey, you're the guys looking to get away for the holidays. Won't cost you nothing to buzz Consolidated, will it?"

"Not if we use your phone, it won't," said Gren.

Doomy scowled at him. "Didn't I warn you about trespassing on my goodwill?"

"I'll go back to The Chuckling Pig and call them," BB said spinning his stool round and standing up. "You up for it, Gren? If the load's on?"

Gren frowned. "I dunno, BB. Is Christmas on Kairfree better than Christmas on Sol 3?"

"Christmas at Doomy's is better than Christmas on Sol 3."

*

Time throughout the Sol system was set using Sol 3 as standard. Europa's 'day' was still divided into 24 hours, even though it circled Jupiter every 85 hours, and kept the same face to the planet.

"You can't say the same for Kairfree." Gren grumbled as they hurried from The Pig to the dispatch office. With the time coming up to midnight on the 23rd, he was anxious to be on their way.

"It still has a twenty-four hour day, Gren," BB told him.

"Yes, but it has an eighteen hour rotation period, and it's a ten-hour hop. By the time we get there, even though it might still be Christmas Eve, it could be pushing up to midnight local time. I don't wanna be working Christmas Day."

"Knowing the Kairfreeons, I don't see what difference it makes. They'll take a month to unload The Pig."

"I don't wanna miss the shops, BB."

"That'll be a first. Gren spending real money."

"I used real money to pay your fine on Veldor. And that's coming out of your wages."

"You never pay me any wages."

"I, er, erm, er... that's beside the point. You owe me one thousand bills."

Viewed from the main offices of Consolidated Consignments' cargo dock, Jupiter filled the sky, and Europa's shadow, so familiar to astronomers back on Sol 3, tracked across the turbulent clouds with a regularity that could be used to set a chronometer.

While Gren went to the dispatch desk, where he would sign for their load, BB nodded a silent greeting to a young woman who occupied a table further along, and strolled over to the windows to gaze out on the rugged landscape.

Ever since water had been discovered on Europa, it had been Man's ambition to settle the world the way he had settled the Moon and Mars (officially designated Sol 4 these days). Jupiter (now known as Sol 5) so huge in the sky, had other ideas. Its gravitational pull meant terraforming an oxy-nitro atmosphere was all but impossible and eventually, the engineers had settled for the same system used on other planets and asteroids hostile to life: the biobubble. A translucent dome, visible only as a slight fading of the blackness of space, the bubble was an energy shield which kept the temperature constant, the artificially generated atmosphere in, and annoyances like meteors, burned out satellites and other space debris, out. It was a safe haven for the men and women who maintained the site, and it was an economical option for truckers who needed less fuel to escape the Europan gravity than that of say Sol 3 or 4.

Common to all biobubbles were the locks, intricately engineered holes, as Gren described them, in the surface which could be opened or closed on demand, and which allowed ships like The Pig to nose in and dock. Only the forward end of the ship penetrated the biobubble. The rear two thirds were still in the Europan vacuum, and that included the hold where the dockbots loaded the goods and containers for transport.

Having made the decision to head for Kairfree, and having called the company to make sure the load was on, BB and Gren had arrived at the Consolidated Consignments' base within an hour of leaving Doomy's and sat here for the past three days while the bots, hundreds of them of various shapes and sizes according to their designated tasks, loaded the shipments.

As Doomy had promised, the urgent supplies had been loaded at the very front of the hold in order to ensure the dockbots on Kairfree turned the ship around as quickly as could be reasonably expected.

"And what are these urgent requirements?" BB had asked.

"Toilet rolls," Gren confirmed.

"Toilet rolls?"

"Two million of 'em."

BB found the mental images too much. "So what's happened to local production on Kairfree? A strike? Or has the entire population of Kairfree suddenly got the trots?"

"Not sure," Gren had replied, "but I was talking to the dispatch manager and he says... well, you know how haphazard they are on Kairfree?"

"The planet is well named," BB agreed.

"Yeah, well, it seems as if Kairfree's biggest producer of bog rolls, kitchen rolls, tissues, general paper products, caught fire. Some bod thought the alarm was the call for lunch, so instead of calling the fire service, he went for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. It was only when he found the canteen closed and saw flames coming from the main production shed that he realised what was going on and rang the fire people. They'd been warned to expect a drill and inspection, and they thought the call was a tip off, so they spent half an hour polishing their engines before someone spotted the smoke in the sky. By the time they got there, the entire place was razed to the ground. The upshot of all this is, there's a desperate shortage of paper products on Kairfree. And there are few substitutes. I mean, it's not like anyone reads old fashioned paper newspapers, is it? Supermarket prices have gone through the roof apparently. There's a raging black market in diapers, and they even have armed guards surrounding the sanitary towel and tampon stores."

"So we have a planet of two billion inhabitants, and we're carrying two million toilet rolls. It's not gonna make much of a dent in the problem, is it? One bog roll per one thousand head of population, each roll has, what, two hundred and fifty sheets? So that's one sheet per four people. Gonna be a bit messy." While Gren shuddered at the thought, BB addressed their servobot. "Mekkano," BB said, "When we get to Kairfree, make sure you guard our toilet rolls."

"Complying, ass-wipe."

Smiling to himself at the recollection of the conversation, BB transferred his gaze to The Chuckling Pig, clearly visible from the dispatch office, her nose pushed through the biobubble, a line of dockbots making their way from the hold, now sealed and secured for the forthcoming journey, to the cargo sheds.

Like all luggers, there was nothing sleek about the ship. Fifty metres long, thirty high, and twenty wide, much of the rear taken up with the slender engine pods, she was painted a dull green with a cartoon image of a laughing pig on both sides close to the bow. The crew zone occupied the forward end at the very top of the hull, a space which measured twenty metres long, and three high by ten wide. It was a small and cramped environment holding the cockpit, galley and heads, and eight small cabins. They were licensed to carry up to ten passengers. Gren and BB had their own cabins and BB was always glad they had never taken paying passengers. He could not imagine how they would react to being housed in small boxes so high up aboard a lugger. And those boxes bore no resemblance to the luxury cabins of the vast spaceliners. Worse, if they ever did have a full complement of passengers, some would inevitably have to share.

And yet, BB loved The Pig. Neither he nor Gren had a planet-bound apartment, and other than his parents' place in Verplemansh, there was nowhere he could call home except the ship. Sure, they stayed in hotels occasionally; usually when they fancied a complete change. But for the most part, home was The Pig, and The Pig was also their living. BB would not have it any other way.

"Yo, BB, we're ready to rock 'n' roll."

Gren's call fired up the adrenaline in BB's bloodstream. Soon he would be where he preferred to be: at the helm, guiding the ship out of the lock, away from Europa, away from the pull of Jupiter and climbing to that point in the Sol System where she would make the jump into hyperspace.

The excitement building in him, he joined Gren, now carrying a pin drive which would transfer the consignment manifest into The Pig's putes.

"Excuse me, guys."

They stopped and turned. It was the young woman BB had noticed sat by the windows further along from him.

Carrying a rucksack on her back, she stood about five feet tall, very slim, her dark hair was set in an even fringe above her brown eyes, and tied in a neat ponytail at the back. The small mouth worked worriedly as she spoke.

"Are you going to Kairfree?"

Gren's suspicious nature, born of years of hassling with the Militia, but usually subdued, cut in. "Who wants to know?"

"My name is Sulin Tassil. I'm a student. I've been working here as an intern, and I'm trying to get home to Kairfree for the holidays."

Gren stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Well, the fare won't be cheap, chickadee. I mean, there's the cost of—"

"Fare?" Sulin cut him off. "I'm trying to hitch a lift."

"Always someone who wants something for nothing, eh, BB?" Gren concentrated on Sulin again. "We're not a charity, darlin'. We're licensed for passengers, but that don't mean freeloaders."

"I could cook and clean for you during the journey."

"Mekkano already does that." Gren pointed to their bot.

"Knock it off, Gren." BB smiled on her. "It's okay, Sulin. We were students once."

"Yeah, but we didn't bum our way round the galaxy."

"No. We bummed our way round Sol 3 instead." Having made his point, BB went on to Sulin, "You're gonna have to put up with us for ten hours, but you're welcome. Just make sure you clean your cabin when you get to Kairfree."

She smiled. "No sweat."

"I'm BB, this is Gren, also known as tightwad, and this is Mekkano."

"Hello, Mekkano."

"Greetings, mistress Sulin, and may you find your cabin more spacious than your tiny bra."

BB looked down at her small bosom and laughed. "Shut it, Mekkano, and get back to The Pig."

"Shutting it and getting back to The Pig, tyrannical twerp."

While Gren wandered off with Mekkano behind him, Sulin blushed and asked, "Is your bot programmed to insult people?"

"Only since Gren ripped the service engineer off."

Ten minutes later, after Sulin had left her rucksack in the cabin next door to BB's, she took the jump seat behind Gren in the cockpit, as BB reversed them out of the lock.

While BB handled the ship, turning it, then nudging forward and upward, Gren's chubby fingers danced around the control console, and he took in readings from the various screens.

"Outbound via navsats seven, eighteen and thirteen," he declared, "Hyperspace interphase, nineteen minutes, calculating leap."

"Roger. Throttles open thirty percent, positive climb, collision avoidance systems on, hyperlight engine igniters on, load compensators on, coffee maker off, bank account empty, we are go for Kairfree." BB pressed the intercom. "Mekkano, secure for hyperspace, eighteen minutes."

"Securing for hyperspace, piloting prat."

Slowly, the great disc of Jupiter slid behind them, the sun briefly filled the viewports, but that, too moved down as they climbed above the ecliptic, and the giant, internal engines which would hurl them through hyperspace lumbered into action, ready to take over from their sublight counterparts.

On the control console central display screen, a representation of reality, a bright, winking light, signalling the point where they would enter hyperspace, sat in the centre, and a red dot, signifying The Pig, slowly approached it.

"Switching to auto," Gren said, as the two dots converged. "In, three... two... one..."

"And go."

Gren threw the switched, BB released the control column, the two dots coalesced and The Chuckling Pig winked out of the Solar System.

Sulin stared in awe at total blackness outside the ship. "I don't think I've ever looked at hyperspace like this. Most of the passenger ships shut down their viewports and show you movies instead."

"That's because some people can't deal with it." Gren sat back in his seat and took out his portable holovid player. Calling up _Velda & the Lervons_, he said, "We're truckers, sugar, not namby-pamby tourist operators. It don't bother us."

BB stood up. "Come on, Sulin, let's get a cup of coffee. Nothing to do in hyperspace but twiddle your thumbs. On the plus side, ten hours from now, you'll be home."

*

The hyperlight yacht _VV Goddess_ touched down on Kairfree and Velda's chief stewardbot buzzed her.

"We have landed, madam."

"Okay, inform the security people that I'll be ready to leave the ship in five minutes."

"Very good, madam."

The yacht had taken luxury to new heights. At Velda's insistence, the fixtures and fittings, which on other yachts and cruisers were composed of polymers, laminates and cheap, albeit highly polished metals, had been manufactured from genuine marble and gold. In her private stateroom, the bed was a replica of one manufactured for the King of some upcoming planet in the quadrant. With inbuilt antigrav pads, she could sleep several millimetres above the surface of the bed, ensuring perfect posture, confident that the plexifoam mattress would conform to the position of her body, even though the only time she was in contact with it was when she was having sex. Since she had no husband, such occasions were rare.

She had personally chosen the soft furnishings, ensuring they were made from only the finest silks and natural fibres, and throughout the _VV Goddess,_ the opulence was a statement of her affluence and importance.

Aged only thirty-six, Velda had grown up in a working class area of Veldor City and from her early teens she had quickly learned how to make the best use of her natural assets: her body. A competent athlete and gymnast, she had trained as a dancer, slept her way into bits parts on holovision, and then made her breakthrough at the age of twenty-two, when the production company were casting for _Velda & the Lervons_. After landing the part, she changed her name from Veena Crumm to Velda Velorium, and since then, she had never looked back. She now owned the production company and all rights to the series.

There were irritations to the job. Like having to turn up on worlds such as Kairfree on Christmas Eve, when all she really wanted to do was ease up for the holidays on her 200-acre estate back home. Having passed the four hour journey from Veldor reading scripts and making notes for the next series of _Velda & the Lervons_, she was in an even more irritated mood. Some of the moves they wanted her to pull off would require more stunt acrobats. It felt to Velda like the acrobats and CGI team were taking over.

Thirty-six was not old and having learned the absolute necessity of physical fitness while training as a dancer, she was still lithe, supple and in peak condition (as her infrequent lovers would readily testify if she did not make a habit of shutting them up with threats of court injunctions) but she was long past the days when she could perform a backflip without a run up. The production schedule called for thirty episodes per year, and after the last series had left her thoroughly exhausted, she had demanded more imaginative weapons, and less physical activity. Looking at the fresh scripts, it was obvious that her demands had not been met. Time to crack the whip with the writers. Remind them just who was in charge. Firing a few would do the trick.

Right now, however, she was fulfilling a long-standing engagement to switch on the Christmas lights in Kairfree City.

"On Christmas Eve, for pity's sake," she snapped at her reflection in the mirror.

Everywhere else, they switched on the lights at the end of November. But that was typical Kairfree. According to her pilot, the Kairfreeons were so lazy they even left space traffic approach control on automatic.

Slipping on a silvered jacket, part of her stage costume, she checked her appearance again. The matching skirt barely reached her thighs and ended at a point where it was decent by mere millimetres, but that was fine. Velda, whether in real life or as her onscreen persona, liked her male audience to eyeball plenty of temptation.

Happy with the way she looked, she stepped out of the cabin to meet her three-man security team in the corridor.

In the light of recent death threats from Rinja Skillthorn, security on the ground had been beefed up, but for close protection, Velda never felt the need for more than three or four well-trained and preferably ex-military men. This team had been chosen on the recommendation of Oka Nasceen's security advisors, and they had been with her for over a week now. All ex-marines, she felt comfortable in their presence, although she had raised a query after two of them were floored by a trucker outside the Veldor Grand Imperial Hotel.

"He took us by surprise, ma'am," Argon Cisworth had told her. "It won't happen again."

Velda accepted the explanation. Trust was restored and here on a strange world, moreover, one where the inhabitants were notoriously lazy and laid back, their skills were paramount. Extra police and Militia had been called up (according to the authorities on Kairfree) but these three guys were more comforting.

Gathering them by the exit, she commanded their attention. "Okay, guys. Briefing. I don't want to spend one minute longer on this craphole than I have to. Cisworth, make sure the cops have been alerted and we have a clear run to City Hall. The switch-on should take no longer than ten minutes, and that includes the verbal bullpoop I have to deliver. I want the cavalcade ready the moment I come off the platform, and I wanna be back on this yacht twenty minutes later. One of you needs to speak to orbital control here at the spaceport, make sure they know who I am, because I want their satellites to give me priority clearance getting off this rock and back in the air. I wanna be home on Veldor for midnight. You got all that?"

"Sure thing, Ms Velorium," Cisworth agreed. "There is just one thing."

"What?"

He pulled a needle gun and aimed it at her forehead. His face split into a broad grin. "It ain't happening quite the way you said it, blondie."

Velda's heart leapt and she looked from one to the other. All three faces grinned back at her. She subdued her initial fear and masked her alarm. Instead, the actress in her came to the fore and she projected absolute fury. "Do you know who I am?"

"Uh-huh." Cisworth nodded. "One spoiled, over-rich little bitch from Veldor. Do you know who I am? I'm Argon Cisworth. Ex-marine turned space pirate." He laughed. "Meet my buddies, Frinco Harlie and Zor Deizon." The other two security men grinned. "Now, your lowness, we're gonna take you to meet our boss, Rinja Skillthorn."

Velda's heart pounded. This couldn't be happening. "I'll tear your head off."

Harlie came close to her, so close she could smell the stale tobacco on his breath. "This ain't a movie set, missy, and you're gonna behave yourself. If you don't, I'll put a needle bolt in your leg. And when we get around to disposing of you, we'll be having a little fun first, so you gonna need both legs to please me."

Velda made a conscious effort to stem the rising panic in her gut. "Why, what will you do? Kill me? I thought you were going to anyway."

"I, er, well, er, look, just cool it. Okay? That way you get to stay alive a little longer. Now move your butt."

As they moved off towards the exit ramp, she heard Harlie talking into a wrist communicator.

"Rinja, we got the babe. You ready for us?"

"We're ready," Skillthorn's grating voice came back. "Most of the spaceport crew are locked away in a training room. We had a little trouble with one or two at inbound, but Cuckoo has dealt with them. What about her crew?"

"We wasted the three humans, and the bots are isolated."

Forced down the ramp at gunpoint, herded into a limoflivver which the robot chauffeur turned towards the giant inbound control building, Velda cursed herself. Why hadn't she noticed that none of her stewardbots were in the corridor? Why hadn't she noticed that the captain, co-pilot and flight engineer were not there? Crammed into the limo, with Deizon and Cisworth either side of her, Harlie up front, all toying with needle guns, she was in a state of abject terror and it was only her training as an actor which prevented her showing it. One question resounded in her head. How the hell had these three made it through the screening process?

The flivver turned into the building and pulled up alongside the passenger arrival point, where she was forced out and along the narrow walkways towards the arrivals hall. Over on the cargo dock, she could see lines of dockbots and porterbots, all robed up as Santa, but standing idle. There was no human in sight, and usually there would be many men and women working here.

That was especially true of the immigration checkpoint, where she would routinely hand over her ID card for identification before being ushered through to the VIP lounge. This time there was no one. Her captors pushed her through the narrow channel of the scanners, designed to seek out weapons and explosives. Someone had once told her that the glass tunnel also held a neuron immobiliser, which could freeze bot-bombs. How she wished it could freeze human beings, too.

Beyond the scanners, the double doors to the arrivals hall swished open and she was herded through.

If she expected a scene of carnage, she was not far off the mark, but there were only two bodies on the tiled floor. One wore a Militia uniform, the other, a woman this time, dressed in the standard pale blue uniform of the Kairfree Spaceport staff. Both lay in pools of blood and appeared to have been torn apart.

As Velda wondered what kind of weapon could do such damage, her eyes fell on a droid. Tall, ungainly, and brutal, even its head and face, vaguely humanoid but cast in titanium, appeared intent upon malice. The rest of the body, a mass of huge limbs and articulated joints, looked as if it had been cobbled together from myriad bits in some Frankenstein-esque laboratory.

"Boy, is he ugly?" she said.

It was the kind of throwaway remark that Velda was famous for when dealing with the renegade Lervons. But she did not feel calm, cool, collected or in control. She had seen this kind of robot before; on a visit to a Marine Corps camp, where it had frightened her almost as much as it did now. It was a CCU – a Cybernetic Commando Unit, or Cuckoo for short, a killer robot, possessed of sufficient strength to tear living creatures, including men and women, to pieces, as it led troops into battle.

Standing alongside the murderous droid, was Rinja Skillthorn, easily recognised from the many images carried on holonewscasts over the last few days. He greeted her with a smile as evil and sadistic as Cuckoo's.

He patted the droid affectionately on the upper arm. "This bot is a relic of the Titan War. I picked him in a scrap yard and spent a year or two reprogramming him." He gestured idly at the two mutilated corpses. "He made pretty short work of those two, and you know something, honey? When I give him the command, he'll tear you apart, too."

Velda summoned up her anger. "Do you know who you're dealing with, Skillthorn?" Once again there was nothing but bravado in her words.

"Yep, and it ain't you. It's a guy called Oka Nasceen. He's the one who has to pay up to stop Cuckoo ripping you in two." He dragged out a handheld holocom and punched in a connection. Moments later, Oka Nasceen appeared as a hologram above the machine. "Nasceen? This is Rinja Skillthorn. We have the bimbo. The price is four hundred million dollars."

Nasceen looked convincingly alarmed and took a few seconds to answer. "Blow it out your pants, Skillthorn. No way do you have Velda."

Rinja held the holocom to Velda. "Talk to him."

"Oka? It's Velda. They've taken over Kairfree City spaceport. The staff are locked up and they have me prisoner. These guys mean business."

"But Velda—"

"Don't argue with me," she cut in. "Don't argue with him. Just get the money."

Skillthorn took the holocom back "You heard her. Four hundred million."

"I can't do it, Skillthorn?" Nasceen protested. "I cannot get hold of that kind of cash."

"You'd better or she's dogmeat."

"Just get the money together and do as these guys say," Velda screamed. "I make more than enough for Veldor, and you'll get it all back."

Skillthorn laughed. "You have six hours, Nasceen. We'll call later and make arrangements for the drop." He cut the connection and glared at Velda. "You'd better hope he comes through. If he don't, you ain't gonna be around to see Santa."

*

"Supine superior snotbottle, we are twenty minutes from hyperspace egress."

At the sound of Mekkano's voice, BB stirred and woke. "Huh? What?"

"In your illustrious ignominy, you requested that I wake you from your dreams of buxom bunk-up babes when we arrived at a time twenty minutes from hyperspatial egress, and we have graduated to that point, my mighty musclebound masturbator."

BB groaned and rolled off the bunk. "You mean it's twenty minutes until we come out of hyperspace?"

"In the shell of a pecan, your taciturn-ness."

"Get out of here, Mekkano, and make me coffee."

"Getting out and making coffee for the clodhopper."

As Mekkano backed out of the cabin, BB reached for his boots and dragging them on over his bare feet, stepped out onto the gangway, turned left and immediate right into the small restroom, where he found Sulin at a table, cradling a beaker of coffee in her tiny hands.

Acutely aware that he was wearing only boots and a pair of shorts, BB fancied he spotted a gleam of approval in her dark eyes as she looked over his muscular torso.

"Sorry," he apologised. "I forgot you were here."

She smiled. "Hey. It's okay. As surprises go, I've had worse."

He sat with her, and took a beaker of coffee from Mekkano. "Where's Gren?"

"The corpulent captain is in his cabin, cuddling his cahooties whilst watching his porno picky-wiccies."

"Does he know we're due out of hyperspace?"

"He has been appraised of the situation, slimy simpleton."

"Sod off, Mekkano. Give me some peace."

"Sodding off and granting pacification."

The bot glided out and Sulin laughed. "How did he get like that?"

"Long story. Remind me to tell you sometime." BB drank gratefully from the beaker and with a vague gesture of the head, indicated his near-nakedness. "Sorry about this. When you live with Gren, you don't always bother with formalities like getting dressed."

"You don't need to explain, BB. I'm old enough to understand that kind of relationship."

BB was instantly aware that she had put the wrong interpretation on his words. "Hey, hold up. No way. Gren and I are not an item. We're not that way inclined. Neither of us. True, we're old friends but our partnership is business, not pleasure. Even if I were gay, I'm sure I could do better than him."

Sulin laughed. "Oh. Right. So there's hope for me yet."

He delivered a generous smile. "Well, we are on Kairfree for the holidays."

Sulin glanced through the viewport at the blank, black nothingness of hyperspace. "You like this kinda life, BB?"

He shrugged. "Not what I had planned in college, but it's not bad. It satisfies my wanderlust and we make a living... at least Gren makes a living and theoretically, forty percent of it is mine."

"I spotted your licence in the cockpit. You're qualified to fly everything. Did you never think about the military or the Militia? They'd snap up a pilot with your skills. Everything from interceptors up to huge troop carriers and transports."

He smiled wanly. "Temper troubles. I can get into a fight at the drop of a hat. I did apply for the Militia, but I was unlucky."

"Competition?"

"Not quite. Two days before I was due at the selection boot camp, I got into a bar brawl. Militia turned up and I put two of them out before another pulled a needle gun and threatened to blow me away. I got off with a fine, and went along to the recruitment boot camp and guess what."

"What?"

"Two of the instructors were the same two I hammered in that bar." He laughed. "I lasted less than half a day before they found an excuse to get rid of me."

Sulin tutted sympathetically. "So did you not think of Spaceways? If you'd signed on with them, you'd be ready for the fourth stripe by now."

"I applied for a job as a trainee pilot, but they ran a Militia check, and my record of arrests popped up." He chuckled again. "No chance. Anyway, about that time, Gren found The Pig. It wasn't cheap, but with his sales patter, he knew we could make a go of it, so we threw every cent into the ship and Mekkano."

"Good life?"

"Like any other job, it's boring sometimes, but most of the time, it's cool. We go all over the quadrant. Better yet, we get paid to go all over the quadrant." He frowned. "Yes, and there are those places we can't go to anymore."

"Like Veldor?"

"Yeah. Like Veldor..." He trailed off in surprise. "How did you know about that?"

Sulin blushed. "Sorry. It just slipped out. To be honest, BB, word spreads quickly, especially in a big office like Consolidated's. Your, er, event, happened mid-morning, three, four days ago, and we knew about it by one in the afternoon. You're blacklisted for consignments to Veldor."

BB laughed again, and as the intercom buzzed, drained his coffee. "They say bad news travels fast, but not as fast as our reputation." He pressed the intercom button. "Go on, Gren."

"We're due out of hyperspace in less than ten minutes. Where the bejeebers are you?"

"Mekkano said you were in your cabin."

"Well, right now I'm in the cockpit. I mean, am I the captain of this tub, or not?"

"Keep your knickers on. I'll be there." BB released the intercom and stood up. "I'd better get suited up," he said to Sulin. "Don't wanna step out on Kairfree in my underpants."

"It'll be warm enough," Sulin assured him, and she too got to her feet. "Gren is the captain?"

BB nodded. "He put up the bigger part of the initial capital and the insurance company needed a named skipper... any name but mine. It doesn't mean much. Without me, he'd have been broke a long time ago. With me, he's rolling in money and I'm broke instead." Stepping out into the corridor, he went on, "Don't get me wrong, Sulin. He's a good sort. He just has narrow vision sometimes. Know what his ambition is?"

"Owning his own fleet?"

BB shook his head. "Owning all four hundred and twenty episodes of _Velda & the Lervons_ on holovid."

***

By the time BB took the right hand seat and Sulin strapped herself in behind Gren, arrival at the Kairfree system was imminent.

In the left hand seat, Gren grumbled his way through the pre-exit checks, while BB sat silent, concentrating on his half of the routines, which included programming in their approach to Kairfree.

Sulin watched and BB guessed she was in awe of the quiet, efficient way they prepared for normal space. Communication was almost non-existent, yet each knew exactly what the other was doing.

When the countdown to exit reached 20 seconds, BB pressed the intercom. "Mekkano, secure for normal space."

"Complying, carrot cruncher."

"Fifteen seconds," Gren said. "Visors down." He pulled a lever and immediately all the windows were blacked out as a metal grid slid down over them.

"Visors?" Sulin asked.

"We know everything about Kairfree," BB explained. "Where it is, what time of day it is. We know where the star is, but we don't know what our precise orientation will be when we come out of hyperspace. If we're looking at the star and we come out of hyperspace less than half an AU from it, we'll be temporarily blinded."

As the visors locked into place, so the vid screen in the centre console came on, showing nothing but the black of hyperspace. Then, without warning, the stars appeared, and in the centre of the screen, sat the blue-white diamond of the planet Kairfree.

The Pig's hyperlight engines cut out automatically, and BB brought in the sublight powerplants, setting the throttles to seventy percent.

Raising the visors, Gren spoke into the sublight radio. "Kairfree control, this here is The Chuckling Pig, coming in on navsat twelve and seeking lockdown approach."

The only answer was a buzz from the onboard putes, and a string of numbers flashing across the green screen so fast that they were no more than a blur. When they finally stopped, the screen flashed out a linear display of instructions.

Gren tutted. "Typical. Auto-approach and lockdown. Bog-standard, couldn't care less Kairfree. I tell you, these guys are even lazier than you, BB."

"And since you're lazier than me, how does that leave them compared to you?" Reading from the screen, BB's hands danced over the console with unerring accuracy. "Tracking navsats twelve, seventeen, sixty-eight and six for Kairfree City."

"Estimating lockdown in fourteen minutes," Gren reported.

BB laughed. "Get the coffee on and your pants off, honey. Daddy's home."

While Sulin blushed and smiled at BB's gag, Gren tutted again. "As if he comes from Kairfree," Gren muttered.

They hit the atmosphere at two hundred thousand feet, The Pig shaking and shivering as if it were in its last death throes. If Sulin were in the least concerned, she did not show it, and the two pilots carried on with their routine approach tasks, content that nothing was amiss. The Pig sped over the Kairfree oceans, her speed and descent carefully controlled under BB's watchful eye.

"How do you hold this tub up in an atmosphere?" Sulin asked as they approached land at twenty thousand feet and the taller buildings of Kairfree City appeared above the horizon fifty kilometres ahead.

"Stub wings," Gren explained. "They slide out from the body and generate lift from our forward momentum. We also have vertical verniers, and when we're close enough to the ground, antigrav pads."

"It just seemed impossible," Sulin explained, "that you could keep something like this aloft without larger wingspan."

"All mathematics," Gren went on. "I can show you the calculations if you like."

"I'd pass if I were you, Sulin. He once showed me the maths behind our financial situation and according to him, I still owe a coupla million dollars."

BB lost Gren's response in the noise of the vertical verniers coming to full blast as they turned on final approach.

"But it's not like Veldor," BB muttered as they cruised above the high rise towers and spires of Kairfree City and began to descend into the spaceport.

"It'll have to do," Gren said. "I do wish you weren't so hasty, BB." He hit the internal PA system switch. "Mekkano. Cockpit. Now."

"Your verbosity underwhelms me, masterful minister of understatement," retorted the bot over the speakers.

"Just get up here, you empty tin can."

"Complying, contents of an empty tin can."

Gren frowned. "What did he mean by that?"

"That you resemble a lump of used canned meat," BB suggested as the autospeed verniers cut in to slow their decent and approach even further.

Gren ignored the insult. "It may not be Veldor, but at least they celebrate Christmas here. Remember last year?" He smiled at Sulin. "We ended up on Cassovinia. Locked down for three days over the holidays and not a jingle bell in sight."

"That was your fault, too," BB complained. "You found us the load." He concentrated on the screen where a giant circle with centre cross hairs was overlaid on a view of the dock beneath The Pig. While he watched, three stubby landing legs extended beneath The Pig's distended belly and she gently settled to the ground.

"Magno-anchors," he called, and Gren flipped the switches to drop the ten-ton steel magnets, where they locked onto steel plates set into the concrete dock.

"We're anchored. Running shut down procedures." While his fingers danced expertly over the console, Gren went on, "What say we make the most of it, BB? Book into a hotel, and have a good, Christmas thrash?"

"I wanted Christmas on Veldor," BB grumbled.

"Now you sound like my kid sister." He mimicked a child's petulant voice. "I wanted a dolly. What you gonna do next? Sit in a corner and suck your thumb."

"Maybe." BB hit the keyboard and filed his log. Climbing out of his seat, he smiled at Sulin. "There you go, girl, you're home. Gren, check us in with the dock clerks. If we're staying in a hotel, I need to get changed."

"Roger, dodger, and hey, no shorts and T-Shirt this time."

BB grunted as he left the cockpit.

Moving along the upper corridor, he met Mekkano, who greeted him, "Felicitations, musclebound mummer. The tiny one commands my attention in the pit of the male chicken."

"Never mind that," BB ordered. "Make me coffee and bring it to my cabin."

"Your wish is my command, oh turbulent tyrant."

*

In the cockpit, with the shutdown procedures completed, Gren cursed the lack of attention from the spaceport authorities.

"Looks like I'll have to take a walk over there." He realised his attitude to Sulin had been cold, but he was not prepared to apologise for it. If anything, he was happy to make matters worse. "Did I tell you that you Kairfreeons are the laziest so-and-so's I ever met?"

Sulin ignored his direct insult on her people. She chewed her lip agitatedly. "Gren, something is wrong here. Look over there." She pointed through the viewport towards the perimeter fence beyond which were the flashing red and blue lights of Militia flivvers. "And look around." Now she waved at the open areas of concrete. "There's not a single human in sight."

Gren was not impressed. "Listen to me, lady, you might have conned BB into a free ride on this hulk, but that's only cos he's hoping for a free ride from you, but don't take the piddle with me. This is Kairfree. Everyone is bone idle. I am going over to the dock, now."

"Gren, please listen to me—"

"Shove it."

He left his seat and emerged into the upper gangway. Finding it empty, wondering briefly where Mekkano was, he hit the button to open the main airlock and listened to the whine of the exit ramp extending before the door hissed open.

His irritation with Sulin had nothing to do with her scrounging a lift. It was the way she had played up to BB. It was always the same. Whenever they met women, BB always got the best, and if there were only one woman, it was BB who scored. He and BB were the best of friends, but there were times when his pal's good looks and charm could be bloody annoying.

The yellow sun of Kairfree beamed its warmth on the world, and Gren filled his lungs with the tang of sweet, spring air. Christmas was a winter tradition back on Sol 3, and while it was held by Commonwealth decree on December 25th throughout the galaxy, December did not necessarily fall in the winter or summer on all worlds.

The planet Kairfree had a reputation for living up to its name. The population never took life too seriously; they tended to be haphazard and lackadaisical. But even so, as Sulin had suggested, Gren expected to find a human supervising the dock area instead of a bot.

Walking towards the building, he noticed that the whole place was devoid of human activity. There were bots standing here and there in gangs. Dockbots standing idle by another lugger similar in size and shape to The Pig, techbots waiting by their truck, where they had the covers open on the engines of a Leviathan, long-haul ore carrier, and a refuelling gang stationed near a Hyperlight yacht. None of the bots were moving.

Gren was particularly impressed with the yacht. Its sleek lines were built for speed, its gold nameplate gleamed in the early afternoon sunshine, and the name, _VV Goddess_ inlaid in what looked like diamonds, sparkled as if beckoning him.

Gren wondered idly who could afford such a yacht. The Pig, a tubby lugger, most of its available space taken up with cargo holds, had cost him and BB most of their joint savings, but it hadn't come anywhere near the price of a Hyperlight yacht.

Entering the dock building, he found it just as devoid of life and movement. As he approached a dockbot, it came to life. "Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

Gren jumped and then remembered that like most dockbots, it was fitted with biosensors which would bring it to life when a human approached.

"Where's your boss?" he demanded of the spindly droid.

"I do not know, master. Central pute control ordered me to prepare my team for unloading cargo but that was three hours ago, and I have had no instructions since."

Gren grunted and ambled off towards the inbound offices. The bots would do nothing until he had booked the load in anyway, a job normally done with the foreman at the bottom of The Pig's exit ramp. But this was Kairfree. Gren would have to go to the booking office on the loading bank.

Hundreds of droids stood off to one side in three long lines which was as sinister as it was innocent. They would not move until a human, or a chargehand droid passed close to them, and only then to ask for orders. It was a sight he had seen many times in many spaceports, but without another living soul to be seen, they appeared to Gren as an army, awaiting only activation before waging war on humankind. The effect was heightened by a group of them garbed in ridiculous Santa outfits, complete with red cloaks and long white beards. Porter bots, Gren decided, designed to assist passengers with their luggage, but in their Christmassy garb, they looked to him like the supreme command of Santa's bot guerrilla force.

With no one to be seen in any of the receiving offices, he would have to go to the main office through the arrivals hall. Still irritated, he wandered further into the building, to the inbound checkpoint, where he would normally have to hand over his papers before being granted admittance to Kairfree.

Here again, he found no one. This time there was not even a bot on duty. Anyone could have walked through and onto the planet without being challenged. It was unusual, even for Kairfree.

"Where the bejeebers is everyone? Don't tell me they've shut down early for Christmas."

Stepping through the unmanned checkpoint, he made for the arrivals hall, and reached into his pocket for his holocom, a cross between a two-way radio and a cellphone. He was about to pull it out and call BB, when the automatic doors of the arrivals hall swished open, a blaster barrel was jammed against his nose, a hand grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and dragged him through.

His heart leapt and so did his finger, still in his pocket, jabbing the knobbly alert button on his holocom.

***

Showered and changed out of his pilot's jump suit, BB emerged from his cabin to find Mekkano at the main airlock. "Where are you going?"

"The master has sent an alert," Mekkano responded.

"No I haven't."

"Not you, beefcake bozo. The other master, the tiny totty teaser who calls himself—"

"I know his name," BB cut him off. "Why would Gren send you an alert?"

"I do not know. Unlike the mind-reading mauler of mammaries, I am not possessed of psychic powers, but if the wizardly worker of the pilot's popsicle will permit, I shall endeavour to find out."

"Belay that," BB ordered. "He's probably taking a leak and hit the button by accident. Tidy up the cockpit and check on where we're up to with the unloading."

"As you wish, meaningless meanie."

While Mekkano floated off to the cockpit, BB entered the galley and poured himself a fresh beaker of coffee. Disposing of the plastic spoon in the atomiser, he glanced through the viewport and frowned.

It was not unusual to see droves of bots and chargehand droids in a spaceport the size of Kairfree City, but usually there was some human activity, too, but he could see none. Glancing over to the arrivals building, he could see no one there, either, but when he looked past it, to the far, planetside corner, he could see a line of Militia flivvers, their red and blue emergency lights flashing in the afternoon sunshine.

BB hurried from the galley and along the gangway towards the cockpit. As he neared it the door swished open and Mekkano emerged.

"Now what?" BB demanded.

"The mordant mistress, Sulin, has taken over our ship, master."

As BB's features clouded, Sulin walked in. She had disposed of her jacket baring the ugly butt of a blaster under he left shoulder.

"What the—"

"Shut up and listen to me, BB. Chances are Gren is already dead, and your only hope of getting out of here is me."

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

She ushered him back into the galley and sat opposite him. Fishing into her rucksack, she took out her warrant card and laid it on the table. "I'd better introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Sulin Tassil of the Commonwealth Security Agency."

BB gawped at the badge. "You're a Fed?"

She nodded. "Uh-huh. We've been monitoring the death threats again Velda Velorium for the last month."

BB cleared his head of her previous revelation. "Death threats against Velda? Don't tell me she owns the CSA, too."

"Nope, but we're talking Rinja Skillthorn. You do know of him?"

"Space pirate, general terrorist, no particular political aims, just enjoys killing and maiming."

"Correct. We've been after him for a long time, and these death threats came from him. It ain't the life of the bimbo I'm interested in. It's getting to Skillthorn. So we monitored the situation. Then we got a call from a woman name Kreela Corune. She was the personal assistant to Veldor's President, Oka Nasceen. There's a lot of unrest on Veldor over the amount of taxes Velda doesn't pay. Kreela overhead a private conversation between Nasceen and Skillthorn discussing plans to kidnap and murder Velda."

"What a dork. She makes billions for that planet."

"Theoretical billions, BB," Sulin insisted. "Velda salts most of it away in tax havens. If she was murdered and the Veldor Militia could be seen to take revenge, she's actually worth more to Veldor dead than she is alive. Not only that, but Nasceen gets re-elected next year."

"Ah. Politicians, eh? Who'd have 'em?" BB frowned. "Let me get this straight. You placed your faith in one overheard phone call?"

"Not quite. You recall the day you got into a ruck with Velda's security?"

"Will I ever forget it?"

"Kreela Corune was killed that morning. Flivver crash on the freeway. No other vehicle involved. The forensic bot said reverse thrusters had been cut off."

"So she had no brakes."

"Right. And the control column lines had been frayed enough for them to snap if she made excessive moves. They must have given way after she accelerated onto the freeway."

"No brakes and no steering," BB said.

"Right again. Just to be sure, forensics found traces of explosive in the fuel tanks. She ran off the freeway and the tanks exploded."

"And that was enough for you?"

"Too much for it to be coincidence. But there was something else. Something to do with you."

"Me?"

"Your spat with the guards made the news, and when we saw the bulletin, we made two of Velda's security guards; the guys you punched out. Argon Cisworth and Frinco Harlie. Both known associates of Skillthorn's."

"Well, why didn't you move then?"

"Two reasons. We want Skillthorn, but now that we have other evidence, we also want Nasceen. We decided to let them go ahead and get one of our agents in behind their defences. Me. We knew there was a shipment due out of Consolidated on Europa, so I turned up there as the Kairfree student looking for a ride home."

"As a result of which, Gren is now dead."

"I tried to stop him, BB, but he wouldn't listen. He insisted on going over to the dock building."

"Right." BB got to his feet. "You want Skillthorn, I'll give him to you. But he'll be in pieces."

"No, BB, don't do it."

"Gimme one good reason—"

"We suspect Skillthorn has a Cuckoo."

BB sat down again. "Like I said, what's the plan?"

"You obviously know what a Cuckoo is."

"I do. My old dad was a bot-tech. He worked at a plant in Verplemansh where they made spares for the military bots. He told me about the Cuckoos."

"Then you know how dangerous those things are. The first thing I need is some intelligence on what's going on over there." Sulin turned to the servobot. "Mekkano, can you access the spaceports internal security cams and show us what's happening?"

"As easily as I can calculate the value of pi to 7,000 places, my lady in limbo."

"Stop bragging and do it."

"Stopping bragging and doing it," said the bot and led the way back to the cockpit where he began to fiddle with the switches on the ship's console.

Moments later, they had several views of the arrivals hall, and BB was relieved to see that both his buddy and Velda were still alive. "But what have they done with the spaceport staff?"

"This is Kairfree," Sulin reminded him. "They're probably asleep."

"Not all of them. Even here there should be more than two bodies." BB pointed to the dead man and woman on the screen.

"All right, so Skillthorn must have locked them all up somewhere."

BB was pleased to hear it. "At least they're probably still alive, then." He was less pleased to see Harlie's face.

"You were right. That's one of the guys I battered on Veldor, the other day."

"The very same battered batterrer, my legionnaire's bacterium."

BB got to his feet. "I'll kill him this time."

Mekkano disagreed. "I regret, oh noble numbskull, that my programming would not permit me to stand idly by and watch you to do that."

"BB, we have to think about this," Sulin insisted.

"That's my pal over there. No way are they getting away with this."

"Masterful meatloaf, the mistress—"

"Mekkano, shut up and follow me."

"Shutting up and following the dipstick duck hunter."

The click of a pistol stayed BB. He slowly turned to find Sulin's needle gun pointed at him. "Don't make me shoot you, BB."

*

It wasn't so much the beard that Gren recognised, but the gap in the teeth and the bruises, both of which had materialised from BB's knuckles.

Harlie recognised Gren, too. "Well, well, well, if it ain't shorty. Where's your pal?"

Sweat poured from Gren. He trembled in terror and he felt like no more than a bag of random, nervous impulses. But his quick brain, sharpened by years of dodging the Militia, the tax man and other undesirable government agencies, still worked. "I, er, you mean BB? He's, er, back on our home world. Sol 3."

Harlie glared sheer hatred and the pistol came close to Gren's forehead. "Where is he?"

Gren was practically pleading. "I'm telling you, he's back home. After we got chucked off Veldor, he blamed me, and said he needed a few days with his folks. I d-don't have any family, so I made this trip alone."

Harlie lowered the needle gun, grabbed Gren by the shirt and dragged him across to the seating in the centre of the arrivals hall, and threw him into the seat next to Velda.

Skillthorn, who had been secreted behind artificial pot plants by the doors looking out on the Kairfree Militia, tramped across and glowered down at Gren, then up at Harlie. "Who's this bum?"

"G-G-G-Grenlon Garamine."

"I didn't ask you, shortpants." Skillthorn raised querying eyebrows at Harlie.

"Trucker," Harlie said. "We got into a fight with his buddy three days ago on Veldor."

"So where's his pal now?"

"Back on Sol 3, he says."

"Waste him."

Harlie chuckled and cocked his gun. "Say g'night to the folks, Grenlon."

"G-G-Gracie," Gren said.

Harlie frowned. "What?"

"It's, er, 'Say g'night to the folks, Gracie'. Not Grenlon. Y'see, you said—"

"Shut up, jerk off." Harlie aimed the pistol again.

"Let him be, Skillthorn," Velda intervened. "You have me. What do you need with him?"

"That's the point," Skillthorn said. "Get rid of him, Frinco."

"You'll need a pilot," Gren said.

The four men exchanged smiles. "What?" Skillthorn demanded.

"You'll need a pilot to get you away from here. When they pay the ransom."

"We already got a pilot."

"Not like me, you haven't." Gren trembled under their combined anger, but his brain worked feverishly, recalling the details of BB's licence. "I'm t-trained on everything. I'm the best there is. Interceptors? I can leave 'em in the starting gate, and that's flying a lugger like mine. Battlecruisers, destroyers, they won't even know I'm there until I fly low over 'em and rip off their antennae." He began to gain in confidence. "You think you're good? You ain't seen nothing until you've flown with me."

"Back off, Frinco," Skillthorn ordered. "We may be able to use him." He brought his face close to Gren's. "I don't need a pilot, pal, but I can always use another hostage. You sit there and behave yourself, you little toe rag, or I'll sick the bot onto you, and you've already seen what he does to people I don't like." With his eyes he gestured at the torn bodies across the hall.

Gren followed the gaze and swallowed hard.

The four kidnappers backed off and Gren sat silent. In terror of the assailants, in supreme awe at Velda's proximity, he forced himself to calm down.

Over by the exit doors stood another two men, both armed, and in front of the doors, was the bot. But this was no Mekkano. It stood about eight feet tall, was shaped roughly like a man, but at the end of its arms were blaster barrels mingled with its fingers.

Velda caught Gren looking. "It's a military droid. First Law removed from its brain." She shuddered. "Most bots can't hurt human beings, but Cuckoos can."

"Cybernetic Commando Unit," Gren said, his voice still trembling. "I know about them."

He tuned his hearing to Skillthorn now speaking into his holocom. "Listen up, jerk-offs. I got Grenlon Garamine here. Captain of The Chuckling Pig. You got thirty minutes to settle this business, or he won't be seeing Santa."

"Come on, Rinja," the voice of the Militia came back. "We're onto Veldor, trying to put the deal together. You gotta give us more time."

"No more time, Militiaman. You've had two hours already. Thirty minutes and we let Cuckoo loose on him. Thirty minutes after that, Cuckoo rips the megababe to pieces." Skillthorn cut the connection and glowered down at his two captives. "If I were you, shorty, I'd start praying that the guys on Veldor get their act together." He stomped off to join his comrades at the doors.

They made no secret of their conversation and once again Gren tuned his hearing to the debate.

"I don't trust this guy. He's a trucker and all truckers are born liars," Harlie said. "His buddy is a tough cookie."

Skillthorn gave the matter a moment's thought. "Argon. You get onto the security cameras and train them on his ship. If his pal is there, he'll come looking and we can be ready for him."

Cisworth agreed and made off to the arrivals counter where he could presently be heard tapping at the pute keyboard.

"Frinco, when I sick Cuckoo onto the trucker, make sure you have the holocam working. I want it to go out live all over the web. That way the clowns on Veldor and Kairfree will know we mean business."

"Gotcha."

"For the time being, I want you and Zor watching the doors, make sure the local cops don't try to storm us."

This is Kairfree, boss," Deizon argued. "They won't do nothing until they get orders and even then it could take 'em two weeks. When do we get to use the babe?"

"When I say so and not until. I have things to sort out first. Now get it on. Doors. I got a call to make."

As the team dispersed to their tasks, Gren looked sadly at Velda, the woman he had adored on the holovid screen since she first burst to stardom. "Can't you, y'know, kick 'em around a bit?"

"They're armed. Or hadn't you noticed? They have that goddamn robot looking for prey." She nodded at Cuckoo.

"Yes, but you don't let that stop you when you're kicking Lervons all over the galaxy."

She clucked. "That's acting, you dummy."

Gren's jaw dropped. "You mean you can't really do all that kicking stuff?"

She shook her head, her bedraggled blonde hair swaying around her fine-boned features. "I was a dancer. All that high-kicking came naturally to me. What you see on the holovids is mostly CGI and stunt women. I do the dialogue and close ups."

Gren stared at her pneumatic bosom. "You have a lot of up to close." Before she could lace into him, he asked, "So what's going down?"

Briefly she gave him a rundown of what had happened aboard the _VV Goddess_. "They managed to scam their way in right under the noses of the Veldor Militia, and when I get back there... if I get back there, someone is gonna pay for this."

Gren took the information in and decided it made little sense. "Why hasn't Skillthorn killed you? I meanersay, the headlines on Veldor said you'd received death threats."

"You heard him. He has things he needs to sort out yet. I don't know what, but I sure as hell ain't expecting a happy Christmas. All I can hope is that Veldor comes up with the four hundred million."

Gren's voice was a whisper. "Four hundred million. That's a lot of moolah, and I guess your guys won't be too keen to pay up."

"They will," she promised. "Veldor needs me more than I need Veldor."

***

Aboard The Chuckling Pig BB glared at Sulin. "If you're gonna shoot me, you'd better get on with it, because I'm going over there."

"For once in your life, get your brain out of your underpants and into your head where it belongs. We're watching them. You think they're not watching us? Gren has obviously sent the alert in secret or they'd be on their way over here now. That means they don't know we're here, but they won't trust to luck. Skillthorn hasn't come this far without being careful. You set foot out there and you'll end up meeting that CCU. And you'd need an anti-tank blaster cannon to take Cuckoo out."

"Master of the baleful bonk, the booby-less babe is correct. Your skill with weapons is such that every barn door in the galaxy is safe even from the same anti-tank blaster cannon in your orgasm-inducing hands."

BB shook his head. "I wish the tech who screwed around with your verbal responses had made you speak plain English."

"Well, my vicarious viscount, he did install plain Serbo-Croat."

"Do you speak plain Serbo-Croat?" Sulin asked and BB shook his head. "If I have this right, Mekkano is saying that you're hopeless with weapons."

"The masterful mistress is correct," the bot declared. "Master BB is a self-confessed expert with the weapon secreted in his shorts, but with all others he is a deadly only to himself."

"Great. I'm teamed up with a robot who can only speak plain Serbo-Croat and a trucker who's a bigger menace to me than the enemy." Putting away her pistol, Sulin chewed her lip. "How the hell are we going to get across fifty metres of open concrete without them seeing us?"

"And when we get there, how the hell are we gonna deal with Cuckoo?" BB demanded.

"If the totalitarian twosome will listen to Mekkano, the CCU series of droids is not a particularly perspicacious pile of poop."

BB frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"The CCU bot is reminiscent of the majestic master himself," said Mekkano, gesturing at BB with one of his multi-jointed arms. "It is all muscle and no brain." BB had the idea that if he could, Mekkano would be smiling sarcastically. "It is simple to trick and trap, my lord lunatic."

Sulin shrugged. "I'll take your word for that, Mekkano, but what do we do when it's trapped."

"If the guru-loving girl will leave that to this servile servobot, he can nullify the Cuckoo's efficacious activity."

"You mean you can neutralise it?"

"Precisely."

BB strode through to the cockpit and took down his blaster. On checking it, he shook his head. "Out of charge. Mekkano, how long does it take to charge an empty blaster?"

"One hour, thirteen minutes, forty two point seven seconds, my masterful mistress mauler."

"I wonder how long they're going to give Gren?"

"Twenty seven minutes," Mekkano said.

"How do you know?"

"The murderous mauler Skillthorn said he would kill the tiny trumper, master Gren, in thirty minutes. That was three minutes ago. Three from thirty leaves—"

"Mekkano, shut up."

"Shutting up."

"We still don't have a plan for getting into the building," Sulin said.

"Let's just run for it. There'll be plenty of places to hide in there and we can surprise 'em. If Mekkano really can neutralise the Cuckoo, we'll level the odds a little."

She shook her head. "We'll never make it. Can you nudge the ship closer?"

"Sure, but you're only gonna advertise our presence." BB looked down at the bot. "Mekkano, can you think of anything?"

"Does the munificent one permit me to speak?"

"Just get on with it."

"Getting on with it."

Mekkano whirled and made his way to the cockpit where he extended his spindly arms and fiddled with several switches. "I now have control of the security cameras and I can replay a one minute loop of boringly blank spaceport for the edification of the potty pirates."

"And while they're watching that, we can get in there." Sulin was delighted. "Mekkano, you are a genius."

"In truth, your Jane Bond-ness of the secretest service, I am several levels above mere mortal geniuses."

*

Skillthorn passed through the sliding doors to the inbound control area, where he made the connection. "All right, Nasceen, we have the babe, we have a dumb trucker, too. What now?"

"She's still alive?" Nasceen asked. "You disappoint me, Skillthorn."

"You told me to wait until we're off this rock."

"I thought you would be off it by now."

"You say that as if I'm supposed to care what you think. We're hijacking the trucker's rig but nothing happens to her until we're off this craphole and the money is in our hands. The rig is called The Chuckling Pig, so make sure your people know to keep their distance from it. I'm gonna ice the trucker in a little while, just to show these boobies on Kairfree that I ain't playing games, but she doesn't get it until I'm fifty million richer."

"All right, all right. Here's what you do. You know the Caron system?"

"About four light years from here. I know it."

"There's a hunk of rock circling Caron Seven. Its official designation is..." Nasceen paused to check the details. "CN72182. It's well-charted. There's an old ore mine there. Your fifty million is already on its way. It'll be there in about an hour. But, hey, Skillthorn, I want proof that you've wasted Velda."

"You'll get it."

"Great. Nice doing business with you."

Skillthorn cut the connection and grinned at the holocom. "Nice doing business with you too, Mr President. Especially since I've recorded that conversation."

Pocketing his holocom, getting to his feet and unslinging his rifle, Skillthorn left the area and marched back through the doors into the arrivals hall. "The trucker," he barked at Cisworth. "Shine him on."

***

Gren risked a glance at his chronometer.

"Twenty minutes?" Velda asked.

"It don't sound like it judging from what Skillthorn just said," Gren argued. "It's not fair, this, you know."

"You could do with your buddy here." Velda sighed. "I could do with your buddy here."

Gren opened his mouth, then shut it again. Ten minutes ago he would have done anything for Velda, but so many of his dreams and illusions had been shattered that he no longer trusted her.

"So what happened to him?" Velda asked.

"BB? Oh, like I told Skillthorn, when we got chucked off Veldor, we went home. Sol 3, you know. The original home of Man. Anyway, he has folks back there, I don't. I grabbed this consignment, but he said he wanted a few days off, so he stayed behind." His chubby features sagged persuasively. "I wish I'd stayed behind, too."

Velda took his hand and squeezed it. "Don't lose heart, Gren. Oka Nasceen will come through. I know he will."

Gren frowned. "Who?"

"Oka Nasceen. The President of Veldor."

***

On Veldor, the moment the connection was cut, Nasceen ran the pre-prepared holovid which showed Velda shot by Skillthorn and his team. He had watched little else for the last three days and every time it raised a smile. The production team of _Velda & the Lervons_ were not the only ones who could work with CGI.

He pressed the intercom. "Send him in, please."

A moment later, the door opened and General Eldon Jarvic entered.

"General," Nasceen greeted him. "I have bad news. This just came in from Skillthorn. I'm sorry to say that Velda is dead." He leaned forward and played the video.

Jarvic watched in horror as two of Skillthorn's team held her arms outstretched and the notorious space pirate pumped her full of needle bolts from his pistol. The two men released her and she fell to the floor, dead, her slender abdomen covered in blood.

The General's ageing features ran the gamut of emotions from horror to pity, to grief to anger. "Cold-blooded murder. My God, is there nothing his man won't stoop to?"

"He wouldn't give us enough time to get the ransom together, General," Nasceen declared, "but we do have the jump on him and his team. They were holding a trucker, name of Grenlon Garamine. Skillthorn and his people have murdered him, too, and stolen his rig. According to my guys, it's named The Chuckling Pig, and I can tell you where it's going. Skillthorn obviously isn't aware of this, but we intercepted signals from it when it took off and amongst those signals was the flight plan. She's heading for a tiny rock in the Caron system." Nasceen handed over the details.

"I'll have a couple of destroyers there to meet him, Mr President," Jarvic confirmed.

"Good," Nasceen approved. "Just one thing, General. Skillthorn has taken away our most beloved icon. I don't want him brought back here for trial. The people of Veldor will demand instant justice. When your crew see that rig, they blow it out the sky. You understand?"

"I'll be happy to pull the trigger myself, sir."

The General saluted and left the sombre-looking president. The moment he was gone, the glum face split into a broad smile, and Nasceen poured himself a whisky. "Here's to me and a second term," he said to the empty room.

***

BB and Sulin entered the dock buildings with great caution, their eyes cast this way and that, looking for Skillthorn or any of his men.

They climbed the short flight of stairs onto the receiving bank, and ran a baleful eye over the lines of bots standing idly by.

"Can you activate them, Mekkano?" Sulin asked.

"They are self-activating, munchkin mistress. If a human or chargehand bot should approach within one metre of them, sensors will prepare them for instructions."

BB had no doubt that Mekkano was right – the annoying little twerp had never been wrong – but he put it to the test anyway, slowly approaching the first of the cargo handlers.

When he got within the specified distance, the bot's head rose and its eyes shone an electric blue. "Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Go back to sleep."

"Thank you, sir." The bot's eyes dimmed and its head lowered again.

"Sulin, if we could get these bots into the arrivals hall, they could cover for us. We could sneak in behind them and tackle Skillthorn and his loons, couldn't we?"

"Forgive my dissent, dubious dunderhead, but they are simple cargo handling bots, unarmed, weaponless, designed only for carrying boxes of variable geometry. The Cuckoo would turn them into vaporised titanium and assorted alloys in a matter of nanoseconds, and even if it ran out of ammunition, it would pound them to crushed metal suitable only as ballast for a submersible."

"Does that mean, no?"

"It does, my illiterate icon."

Sulin agreed. "What Mekkano is trying to say, BB, is that Cuckoo is our main problem and always has been."

"The veritable virgin has encapsulated my exposition in the shell of a petite pistachio."

"In the what?"

"He means in a nutshell. It's an English expression." BB stroked his chin. "We have to find a way to deal with the Cuckoo, then?"

Sulin groaned. "Welcome to the real world, BB."

Mekkano beeped. "If the lascivious lord and lusty lady will permit a suggestion, may I recommend the neuron immobiliser?"

BB and Sulin exchanged puzzled glances.

"I work in galactic security and I didn't know Kairfree had a neuron immobiliser at the spaceport," Sulin said.

"It is a standard installation in all control stations, marginal minion of the covert under the blankets service," Mekkano assured her.

He led them across to the narrow scanner channel through which every person or bot entering the spaceport had to pass.

"This is the body scanner," BB objected.

"Indeed it is, my braindead boss, but it also has a neuron immobiliser fitted, whose purpose is to neutralise renegade bots."

"What kind of renegade bots?" BB asked.

"The kind that carry terrorist boom-boom bombs, sire of several siblings."

Suddenly both BB and Sulin understood. Terrorism was not a major problem in the galaxy, but equally, it was not unheard of. Bot bombs were the modern equivalent of suicide bombers. A harmless servobot, like Mekkano could be filled with high explosive designed to trigger in a crowded environment like a spaceport arrivals hall.

"But if the explosive is detected, the bot can also be programmed to detonate there and then," Mekkano went on in lucid terms for once. "Standard operating procedures demand that if explosives are detected, the bot is permitted to continue towards the arrivals hall, but is then trapped as it passes through the neuron immobiliser."

"All right," BB agreed, with one eye on the time. "So we trap Cuckoo. What then?"

"The Neuron immobiliser is harmless to humans, master. While the Cuckoo is in there, you must remove its power unit. We can then switch off the immobiliser and I will reprogram it."

"And how long will this take?"

"Approximately three minutes, my Captain courageless."

"You'd better be right about this, Mekkano."

"I am never in error, your worshipfulness."

***

Cisworth crossed the floor and yanked Gren to his feet. Bringing up his rifle, he pressed it to his hapless victim's temple.

"Hang on," Gren protested. "Rinja, you gave me half an hour. I've only had ten minutes. I should have twenty to come."

"The deal keeps changing, shorty. Kiss your ass goodbye. Soon as you're gone, we're taking your rig."

"This isn't fair, you know," Gren pleaded, "I mean, for all you know, I could be on your side. Can't you put it off a bit longer?"

"How much longer?" Skillthorn asked.

"About another forty years or so."

The thug laughed. "Funny guy. Waste him."

The doors behind Skillthorn whooshed open and Gren's heart leapt with brief joy. Mekkano stood framed in them.

"Hey, Cuckoo," the bot called, "word is your poppa was a Venusian rock grinder who laid your momma outside a Kentaur cathouse."

All heads turned. Mekkano backed off and the doors closed.

"Cuckoo," Skillthorn barked, "get after that bot and crush it."

The giant bot's head turned, the eyes blazed red. "Complying."

There was no pleasant monotone such as Mekkano delivered. Instead the words came in a grungy grunt, which grated on the ears.

Cuckoo lumbered towards the doors, every thud of its huge feet reverberating across the empty hall. The door opened, Cuckoo passed through and they slid shut behind it.

"Argon, Zor, Frinco, get ready to follow the minute Cuckoo comes back." Skillthorn glared at Gren. "If your buddy's in there, he's dog meat." He grinned. "You got a stay until we crush him. I figure about another five minutes."

*

In the backroom, BB and Sulin waited by the inbound security control console.

"I hope your bot has this right."

"He drives you mad sometimes, but he's never wrong," BB assured her in what was a not very reassuring voice.

Mekkano had left them to the controls and went off to the double doors, where he called out his taunt to the Cuckoo, before backing off. Neither BB nor Sulin could understand why Mekkano did not move out of sight, but the moment the doors opened again to admit the Cuckoo, it became clear. The direct line from the doors to Mekkano would bring the Cuckoo through the body scanner and under the neuron immobiliser... provided it did not raise its blasters.

BB sweated the line on that as the huge metal creature stared around. Its evil, glowing eyes finally settled on Mekkano and for a moment, BB thought it really would resort to the blasters. After a pause, it loped forward. BB counted the paces from the doors to the scanner. Ten, eight, six. It was moving too fast. He'd never catch it. Three, two, one.

He hit the switch and a bright green glow surrounded the Cuckoo. It stopped dead, mid pace, one foot raised from the floor.

BB left the control console and with Sulin alongside him approached the narrow channel, now filled with this huge machine. They took in its disjointed, angular form, shuddered at the thought of the damage those massive fists, each the size of Sulin's head, might do to man or machine.

"Are you sure the neuron immobiliser field is safe for humans, Mekkano?" Sulin asked.

"It is entirely safe, mistress."

With a shrug at Sulin, BB stepped into the steady glow surrounding the Cuckoo.

"Tests covering its detrimental effects on male potency were never substantiated," Mekkano said.

BB looked sharply at the bot, and wondered whether Mekkano was simply joking again. Sulin smiled.

Concentrating on the Cuckoo, BB ducked under the massive arms, opened the chestplate, found the isolator switch and snapped it off.

"How come your isolator isn't that easy to access?" he asked.

"The Cuckoo is designed with common soldiers in mind, my marmoset minder. It needed simple access to its power source so it could be deactivated for long journeys. If the glorious grape gobbler will now deactivate the neuron immobiliser, I shall reprogram the Cuckoo."

"To do what?"

"I think the dopey director and the doxy of the distaff side will be gratefully surprised by the results, and I have no desire to interdict on your pleasure."

Returning to the console, BB switched off the neuron immobiliser and, relieved that the Cuckoo did not move, checked the time again. "All right, Mekkano. Just do it. There are fifteen minutes before Rinja ices Gren."

"Complying, dodgy duty dodger."

***

If BB remained ignorant of Skillthorn's changed plans, Gren was aware of nothing else. He looked to his chronometer, to the double doors where Mekkano had appeared, back to his chronometer, at Velda and back to his chronometer.

"They won't wait much longer," he gasped. "If something doesn't happen soon, I'm toast."

"Relax," Velda advised. "We'll be all right. Have faith. Something will turn up."

"Oh sure." Gren practically oozed sarcasm. "There's probably a hell of a Christmas party going on in Heaven, and I might just make it."

Ahead of them, Skillthorn continued to pace near the inbound arrivals doors. He too kept a close eye on the time, pausing now and then to grumble, "Where the hell is that droid?"

"I keep wondering the same thing," Gren said, but he was more concerned with Mekkano than Cuckoo.

With time drawing near, Skillthorn stopped pacing, cocked his blaster and hurried over. He dragged Gren to his feet and pressed the blaster against his head.

"Time to join your ancestors, pal."

Gren trembled as he answered, "L-l-listen, Rinja, let's cut some kinda deal here. You don't wanna kill me, do you?"

"Can't say it bothers me," Skillthorn admitted. "And what kind of deal can you come up with? Better than four hundred million?"

"Well, I don't have that much on me," Gren confessed, "but I'm sure we can strike a bargain here."

"Nope. No good. I won't settle for less than four hundred million." Skillthorn pressed the gun to Gren's forehead and squeezed the trigger.

Gren shut his eyes, expecting nothing but death.

Skillthorn laughed greedily. "So long, jerk off."

The double doors opened and Cuckoo tromped out. Lowering his pistol, Skillthorn looked over his shoulder. "Where the hell have you been?"

To everyone's astonishment, the giant droid put both hands on its hips and to the tune of _Jingle Bells_ , began to warble in a falsetto voice.

Jingle Bells, Velda smells,

Rinja dropped an egg.

The Chuckling Pig is on the ground,

and BB's in the hall"

Skillthorn released Gren and turned his fury on the droid, but to his astonishment, Cuckoo began to mince around the floor like a dancer practising his steps.

"What the hell is going on here?" Skillthorn screamed.

Cuckoo stopped prancing and placed his massive hands on his hips. "You may well ask. Do you know my life has been a complete waste, mashing all those lovely humans when I could have been making chintz drapes for aunt Enda. And I've seen the most heavenly Afghan carpet in a catalogue." Cuckoo raised one leg from the floor, lifted his other foot, _en pointe,_ and performed several rapid pirouettes before collapsing in a noisy metal heap and laying perfectly still, the blaze in its eyes gone.

Skillthorn roared fury at the pile of moribund scrap metal. He rounded on his henchmen. "Argon, stay with me. Frinco, Zor, get in there and find that bot."

The two guns exchanged wary glances.

"Rinja, we—"

"Do it," Skillthorn screamed and levelled the blaster on them.

"Okay, okay," Zor said, and led the way slowly to the double doors through which Cuckoo had emerged.

***

In the control room, watching on the holoscreens, BB and Sulin had no time to enjoy the fury Cuckoo's performance had caused. A search of the offices and loading dock had turned up no weapons other than a laser paper knife and a drum of electrical cable.

"All we have is my pistol and they're armed with blaster rifles," Sulin complained.

The blade on the paper knife was too short to inflict any real damage, but BB used it to cut a length of the cable.

"We can tie them up... if we can ground them."

"BB, if they get one look at us, they'll blast us to hell."

He looked along the line of dormant droids. "Then we'd better make sure they don't see us. Mekkano, make yourself scarce."

"And where will the masterful muscleman and delightful dolly be?"

"With those bots," BB said, and dragging Sulin behind him, hurried over to the standing army of dockbots.

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"No."

"Thank you, sir."

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"No."

"Thank you, sir."

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"No."

"Thank you, sir."

As he passed each bot, so it awoke, asked its inane question, BB responded and the bots slept again.

Yanking Santa outfits from two of the bots, he tossed one to Sulin and threw the other on himself, dragged the beard into place and ordered her to the back line of bots. Taking his place in the front line, he controlled his breathing and forced his nerves to settle.

All they had to do was wait.

***

Zor Deizon had a reputation as a tough cookie. By his 25th birthday, he had already served four years in the Commonwealth Marine Corps, and after a dishonourable discharge, he had served two sentences for armed robbery and escaped a murder charge through lack of evidence.

"Lack of evidence?" he had laughed with his friends in a bar on Veldor. "They didn't even have a body. I threw it onto a reactor feed belt and it was gobbled up by a nuclear furnace on one of the Moons of Tarmon 3."

That was Zor Deizon. Toughest of the tough, meanest of the mean. He deferred only to Rinja Skillthorn, and not because Rinja was any tougher, but because he was smarter. Deizon feared nothing, no one.

But stepping into the control area at the rear of the arrivals hall, he felt an unaccustomed sense of unease. Not exactly fear, but nervousness; wariness.

He'd seen Cuckoos in action many times. One tough mother; a machine that could crush and mangle any living creature to an unrecognisable pulp, and at the same time resist blaster bolts, needle guns, arc whips, any kind of weapon clear up to the 100 megavolt neutron cannon. And yet, something had screwed it up, turned it into a ballet dancer. To do that would involve getting at the power source, isolating it, then reprogramming the CPU. That kinda power was beyond anyone but the military. That kinda power deserved respect.

While Harlie turned right through the control area, checking out the offices, and the spaceside exits, Deizon turned left towards the army of standing bots, his itchy finger hooked onto the trigger of his blaster rifle.

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

Deizon's heart leapt and he spun his rifle on the nearest bot. His pulse calmed again. Dockbots. Useless machines... well, useless unless you wanted boxes moving around.

He looked along the lines. Hundreds of them. Some of them dressed as Santa. He smiled to himself. He'd almost forgotten it was Christmas Eve.

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

As he passed each bot, his careful eyes looking everywhere, guarding against a possible attack, so the droid heads would rise and the words would be delivered. Deizon ignored them and the heads lowered again.

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Is there something I can do you for, sir?"

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

Deizon paused. Something wrong. One of those bots had a different voice and it had said... He whirled back and his heart froze.

A Santa bot had moved. Its eyes were narrowed, and the mouth behind that ridiculous white beard grinned savagely.

Deizon brought up his rifle. Too late. A huge fist, anything but metal, connected with his nose. His head reeled, blackness rushed up to meet him and all he could feel was the warm blood running from his broken nose over his lips.

***

BB and Sulin worked quickly. Disarming Deizon and ignoring the incessant requests of the bots for instructions, they dragged the unconscious thug into the heart of the crowd, jerked the hands behind the back and wrapped the cable around the wrists and ankles, hogtying Deizon and securing him against possible escape.

"Two down, three to go," BB whispered.

"Two down?"

"I was counting the Cuckoo," BB explained as he took Deizon's blaster rifle.

"Are you safe with that?" Sulin asked.

"Don't take any notice of Mekkano," BB boasted. "I know what I'm doing with it."

Setting it to stun, he peered out from the cover of the droid ranks and looked towards the offices. He could see Harlie wandering out through the spaceside exit.

"How come he hasn't heard the bots?" BB asked.

"He probably figured it was his buddy energising them."

With Harlie out of the building, they made their way back to the office and sat on the floor. "Right. Listen, Sulin, you wanna wait here while I deal with this guy?"

"You're sure you can?"

"I put his lights out on Veldor last week."

"Go for it, BB. I'll run through the camera feeds. See if I can't work out where they're holding the staff." She perched up on her knees, took down the keyboard and dragged the monitor to the edge of the desk where she could watch it, and then sat down again.

Happy that she was safe, BB kept himself low and hurried out of the office, across the front and to the corner where he could watch both the arrivals and spaceside entrances. A light burned above and a few metres ahead but did not illuminate him. If Harlie saw him at all it would be only as a shadow.

What he had said to Sulin wasn't exactly the truth. He had never been considered the best shot with a blaster, so he needed one, good clear shot at the thug. If he missed, if Harlie was not stunned...

He dismissed the thought. No point being negative.

While he waited he began to worry about time. According to his chronometer, Gren had less than ten minutes to live and even if he and Sulin overcame Harlie, he still had to tackle Skillthorn and Cisworth.

It was going to be tight.

*

Out in the arrivals hall, Skillthorn had granted Gren another stay of execution.

"You may be useful if your buddy comes trooping through the door. But once my men bring his body back, you get yours."

"I keep telling you, BB is back on Sol 3," Gren insisted.

"Tell it to the marines."

"If I could tell it to the marines, I wouldn't be negotiating with you, would I?"

Gren did not mean to say it. It just slipped out before he could stop it. The result was a predictable paroxysm of rage from Skillthorn, in which he raised his blaster, ready to bring it down, and it was only Velda's intervention that stopped it.

"You touch him and I'll kick your ass. The only way you'll stop me is to mangle me, and I won't be worth diddley, never mind a ticket outta here."

Skillthorn backed off and vented his anger by kicking the dormant Cuckoo, an act which only hurt his foot and enraged him further.

Secretly cringing next to Gren, Velda risked a glance at her chronometer. "I can't understand why Nasceen hasn't paid up. I told him to get on with it. He knows how valuable I am to Veldor?"

"He's a politician, isn't he?" Gren asked. "What price he doesn't know the value of anything other than his own wants?"

She shook her head. "No, no. I'm Velda. I am Veldor. That planet can't survive without me."

"I think that's what I love about you," Gren remarked. "Your modesty."

She ignored him and instead asked, "What the hell is taking your friend so long?"

"Will you listen to me," Gren insisted. "It's not BB. He's back home."

She smiled. "Tell it to the marines."

***

At the control office, BB caught sight of Harlie coming back into the building and raised Deizon's blaster rifle.

"Come on, sunbeam," he muttered as the hood was hidden by the dockside bank. "Just a few more steps."

"Zor?" Harlie called out. "You there, Zor? I can't see no one."

Harlie climbed the short flight of steps onto the receiving dock and BB took careful aim. Taking a deep breath, he held it and mentally counted. "One, two, three, four... now!"

At that moment, Mekkano appeared and grabbed Harlie by the wrist.

"You shall not harm the grandest of the grand.... Eeeeeeek!"

BB's stun bolt missed Harlie and struck Mekkano on his domed head. Mekkano rattled for a second, released Harlie and stood still. Harlie dived for cover as BB let off a second bolt.

A red killer bolt shot BB's way. He too ducked as it took a chunk out of the ceiling.

"Listen to me," BB called out. "Your buddy is out of it, Rinja and the other clowns are dead along with the Cuckoo bot. You're on your own and you can't get away."

"There are no Militia spaceside," Harlie called back. "You just show me your pretty little head and I'll put you out of your misery then be outta here on your rig."

A second bolt whistled over BB's head. He ducked further back and cut round the rear of the control office, to the far corner, seeking a better angle. As he poked his head round, so another bolt shot his way.

He threw himself back, and it shattered into the rear wall less than a metre from where he had stood.

"You think I spent all those years in the Militia to be taken by a dumb trucker?" Harlie called out.

And BB had to admit, Harlie was right on the last count. He was a dumb trucker, brilliant at the yoke of any ship, handy with his fists in a barroom brawl, a charmer where the broads hung out, but tactically an amateur and a no-hoper with weapons. He'd taken Deizon out through some lateral thinking, but he'd left Deizon no time to shoot.

Could he fool Harlie with his ability to dodge Militia ships? Keeping low, he hurried across the gap between the control office and the inbound cargo booking office.

"You think I'm just a dumb trucker, huh?" he shouted back. "You're talking to the man who saw off Morgo Mantarin and his wife."

"And who the hell is Morgo Mantarin?"

"Toughest cookie on Europa," BB replied.

"You ain't on Europa, dumbass."

"What I can do on Europa, I can do here," BB swaggered as he crawled along the narrow gap behind the offices, manoeuvring his way over thick electrical cables, "You come close and I'll show you."

He moved forward again and felt the Santa cloak snag on something. BB looked back. A loose screw from a cable clip. In this day and age, they were still anchoring cables to the wall with screws? BB paused a moment, listening to the building. No noise at all. Had Harlie made for the control office. Sulin!! BB spun and checked back the way he had come he could see nothing and no one. If Harlie had walked into the office, she was dead meat. Leaning forward again, he tugged at the cloak. If he could just rip it free...

"Is this close enough?"

From his prone position, BB turned his head once more and looked up into Harlie's blaster barrel.

"On your feet, jerk off. I wanna see your face before I take it off."

"Bit difficult to be honest," BB chuckled. "I'm, er, snagged on this pipe clip..."

"On your feet. Now!"

BB rose and stopped in half crouch, unable to rise further thanks to the clip. "I'm caught, you dimwit."

Harlie smiled sadistically. "Then lose the Santa suit."

BB shrugged and slipped his left arm out of the cloak.

"Now. On your feet."

BB stood.

Harlie pointed to the bruises and his missing teeth. "I always enjoy killing, and I owe you for these, so I'm really gonna get off on wasting you."

The click of a pistol hammer near his ear stalled him.

"I don't think you'll enjoy it as much as you hoped," Sulin said. "Drop the blaster."

Slowly, Harlie put the rifle down and stood upright again, his hands raised.

BB smiled. "Sulin, why don't you go make us a cup of coffee?"

"BB, I—"

"Two minutes, huh? That's all I ask."

She shrugged and backed off.

BB smacked his fist into his opposite palm. "Now it's just me and you, jerk off. No weapons, just your jaw and my knuckles."

The fight was short lived. Going down in a flurry of blows, Harlie threw a few punches, BB rolled with them, and laid his man flat.

With no cable this time, he tore a sleeve from Harlie's jacket, used it as a temporary binding and dragged his helpless victim into the control office, where he punched him one last time for the hell of it, before he and Sulin tied him to a chair.

"Mekkano is out of it," Sulin said. "Your rogue shot fried some of his circuits."

"He'll repair," BB said, checking the monitors. "Did you find the spaceport staff?"

"All forty of them. Locked in a training room somewhere over there." She waved in the general direction of the loading docks.

"They'll be safe enough there until we get this sorted out, then." BB retuned the monitor to the arrivals hall camera.

Skillthorn was pacing and angry. Cisworth was still stationed behind the counter, but looked anxious. Both men were heavily armed.

"If we rush out there, BB, we're dead."

"What we need is a distraction."

"Such as?"

BB glanced out of the office at the line of dockbots. "The bots. Remember I said we could use them as cover? Once we get through there, can you deal with Cisworth while I take Skillthorn?"

"Sure. But—"

"Come on."

He hurried out of the office, Sulin right behind him, and made for the line of bots.

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Arrivals hall, now."

"Very good, sir."

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Arrivals hall, now."

"Very good, sir."

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Arrivals hall, now."

"Very good, sir."

"Is there something you wish me to do, sir?"

"Arrivals hall, now."

"Very good, sir."

Bot after bot made for the arrivals hall. Snatching another Santa cloak, BB made for the control office and the PA system.

***

His face flushed with rage, Skillthorn dragged Gren to his feet. "Your time, pal. Say g'bye to blondie."

"For God's sake, Skillthorn, please don't do this."

"Save it for God. You'll be meeting him in a..."

A metallic click sounded around the hall, and BB's voice boomed from the speakers.

"I am the ghost of Christmas past, the next move you make may be your last."

Forgetting about Gren, Skillthorn whirled round. "Where are you, you son of a—"

"I am the ghost of Christmas present, lay a hand on him and I'll teach you a lesson."

"COME OUT HERE AND FACE ME," Skillthorn screamed.

"I am the ghost of Christmas future, come close to me while I punch your hooter."

The doors whooshed open. Skillthorn whirled and fired. A bot dropped to the ground. Another bot followed, and another, and another and another.

Behind the counter, Cisworth flapped uselessly and eyed the main doors as if contemplating his exit.

Time and again Skillthorn fired, but the bots kept coming. He checked the charge on his blaster. Running low.

"Get back, you bots. All of you. Get back, get back, get back."

The bots turned and marched back, meeting others coming through. Soon there was a crowd of bots moving in different directions. Skillthorn, on the point of disorientation, yelled and yelled at them. As his temper finally snapped, he whirled the blaster on his two captives.

A red blur hurtled from the crowd of bots and flew at Skillthorn. Taken midriff, his blaster shot was skewed sideways and took out the front glass of a vending machine. Candy and soft drinks spilled from it.

At the same time, Sulin hurtled across the floor and leapt over the counter, landing a perfect dropkick on Cisworth. They went down behind the counter fists and feet flying.

As Skillthorn and BB rolled across the floor, Velda rose, but Gren brought her back down.

"When he gets in a fight, BB has tunnel vision," he said. "He'll hit anyone and anything in range." He ducked to his knees and began to crawl across the floor.

"Where are you going?" Velda asked.

"Hungry. Candy."

***

Somewhere between his waist-high tackle on Skillthorn, and rolling to a stop with the thug above him, BB became aware that the blaster had gone, skittering off across the polished floor tiles. But with Skillthorn straddling him, raining blows at his head and body, he could take no advantage. The fists pummelling into his ribs and head were beginning to drain his strength and when he tried to reach up, Skillthorn simply batted his arms away to one side.

He threw punches of his own, landing his hard fists into Skillthorn's ribs, but they were ineffectual against the body armour wrapped around his opponent.

A brief gap appeared in the flailing arms, through which BB could see Skillthorn's rotting teeth. Summoning his remaining strength, he threw out a straight right. Several more of Skillthorn's teeth disappeared and his mouth showered blood. The hiatus was enough. BB threw him off and rolled over to push himself up.

He was on his knees when Skillthorn came back and kicked him viciously in the ribs. BB went down again.

Skillthorn glanced across the floor at his blaster, threw himself at it, and slid the final six feet to close his hand round the butt.

A spiky heel came down on his hand and he yelled out. Velda bent, picked up the blaster and aimed it at his head.

"So long, asshole," she said, repeating one of her favourite lines from her successful TV series.

"No," BB urged. "Velda. Don't shoot."

She glared. "Why the hell not? He'd have killed your buddy and me if you hadn't come to our rescue."

Sulin emerged from behind the counter, dragging Cisworth's inert body with her.

"Put the gun down, Ms Velorium."

"And who the hell are you?"

"Sulin Tassil. Commonwealth Security Agency. Now put the gun down."

"This crud was gonna kill me."

Getting groggily to his feet, BB staggered across to her, and waved at the arrivals hall in general. "CCTV. It's all over this place. That's how we knew what was going on. You shoot him, it'll be all over the holoweb before tomorrow morning. Half the galaxy will love you for it, but the other half will insist on dragging you through the courts."

"I'm Velda," she yelled.

"And I'm BB, and neither of us are stupid."

"But..."

BB took the blaster from her and gestured at the bodies around them. "He's murdered a couple of people here, he kidnapped you, threatened to murder you and Gren, tried to kill me. He's going to the atomiser." He handed his holocom to Sulin. "Bell your people. Tell them it's over."

By the vending machine, Gren slurped from a canned drink. He held his free hand out, full of sweets. "Chocolate, anyone?"

*

Velda raised her glass. "Cheers, or happy Holidays. Isn't that what you guys say on Sol 3?"

"It's usually Merry Christmas where we come from," BB corrected Velda and raised a glass of champagne to hers.

"But we're not where we come from." Gren swallowed a mouthful of Christmas pudding and hurriedly joined their toast. "Cheers."

BB took in the opulence around him and revelled in it. Alongside this yacht, The Chuckling Pig was a dustbin. Gold fitments were strewn about the stateroom, the drapes were hung in real silk, the plush furnishings, all handmade to Velda's precise specifications, she had boasted, were deep, comfortable, luxurious, and to top it all off, the stewardbots wore stiff white shirts and jackets, their sleeves embroidered with gold braiding spelling out their ranks.

Not that BB or Gren had a clue of the difference between three stripes and two, but it was impressive all the same.

"Your secret service buddy rang earlier," Velda said. "She ain't getting much of a Christmas this year. She's too busy putting the charge sheet together. It seems they arrested Oka Nasceen first thing this morning. He was behind it all. He's bleating innocent, but when she checked Skillthorn's holocom, she found a recorded conversation between him and Oka. And get this, a search of Nasceen's office turned up a holovid of me shot to hell by Skillthorn. I think I'll be having words with my CGI team when I get back."

"Nasceen murdered his personal assistant, you know," BB said. "Sulin told me. He should go to the atomiser with Skillthorn."

"He's a politician," Gren said. "He'll get off."

"I don't think so," Velda told them. "By the time I've had a word with the Attorney General on Veldor, he may not end up on Death Row, but he'll be inside for most of the rest of his life." She sipped again at her champagne. "It all turned out good, and I have you guys to thank for that."

"All in a day's work, ma'am." BB smiled.

Reclining in her seat and fitting a cigarette into a long, gold, diamond-encrusted holder, Velda asked, "So what are you two doing after the holidays?"

"Once the Militia get the spaceport working again, we can pick up a fresh consignment and be on our way," Gren replied, helping himself to another portion of Christmas pudding.

"To where?" Velda asked.

"Depends where it's going," BB said. "That's the life of a space trucker."

"You can't pick and choose?"

BB shrugged. "To a degree, yes. I rather fancy New Year on Veldor... if you could arrange to get the ban lifted."

"You guarantee you won't come pestering me?"

"Absolutely."

"In that case, consider it done. I'll speak to the Attorney General and have all charges dropped. I'll even get you a refund on your thousand-dollar fine." Velda lit the cigarette. "You know, BB, you're pretty tough, and I need reliable security. I pay top dollar." She glanced at Gren, munching his way through the pudding. "And I could do with a food taster."

BB laughed. "Velda, you're the best thing in the quadrant, no mistake. If you asked me to take you to bed right now—"

"Which I won't," she cut in.

"Which you won't," BB agreed. "But if you did, I'd throw you over my shoulder and carry you there. On the other hand, if I worked for you, how long would it be before you threw a tantrum and I told you just what I thought of you? It's a great offer, but no thanks."

"Oh well." The blonde superstar shrugged. "It was just an idea."

The far door swished open and the butler-bot entered. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Gren, "but your bot is without."

Gren frowned. "Without what?"

The bot's metal faced remained impassive, but BB got the idea he was frowning. "He is outside, sir."

"Oh right. Is he fully operational again?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Then show him in."

There was a short delay before Mekkano glided in.

"Cute bot," Velda commented.

"Thank you, mistress of the half nakedness. May your bosom never sink as low as your morals."

Velda gaped. "Is he always so rude?"

BB smile apologetically. "It's the only way we can tell if he's working properly."

# THE END

# The Author

David Robinson was born a Yorkshireman, but moved across the Pennines. He is a former adult education teacher and trained hypnotherapist, he lives with his wife on the edge the brooding moors northeast of Manchester.

As Robert Devine, he produces dark thrillers sometimes bordering on, or straying into sci-fi, but always with an element of the macabre, looking into the dark heart of human behaviour.

Working with darkstroke books, he also publishes light-hearted, cosy mysteries and more serious fiction works under his real name, David W Robinson.

For more information, visit:

<https://mysteriesaplenty.blogspot.com/>

 https://mysteriesaplenty.blogspot.com/p/thesanford-3rd-age-club-mysteries-do.html

 https://mysteriesaplenty.blogspot.com/p/the-midthorpe-murder-mysteries-aseries.html

And you can follow him on Facebook at:

<https://www.facebook.com/davidrobinsonwriter/>

THANK YOU FOR READING. I HOPE YOU HAVE ENJOYED THIS BOOK. IF SO IT WOULD BE WONDERFUL IF YOU COULD LEAVE A REVIEW.

