Science-fiction short stories, mostly from the less-serious end of the spectrum. You'll find zombie presidents, talking sharks, world-endangering sub-woofers, coffee-toting terrorists, an unhealthy number of 80s references and a whole lot more. Th...
A/N: This is the first time I've written a short story set in the 'baristaverse'—the version of the Milky Way in which my Watty winning novel The Four Baristas of the Apocalypse takes place. The main character is a new one and there are no baristas, but long-time readers may recognise a few familiar faces and names. Don't worry if you haven't read the novel, no prior knowledge is required (and there won't be a test). 3300 words.
"Boss, we've got company."
"Company? Out here?" Pick poised, the spacesuited figure turned to look back at the Spectra, floating half a click or so away, out beyond the boundary of the asteroid field. "Are you sure?"
The pause that preceded Zan's response was calculated, to within fourteen decimal places, to precisely convey her opinion on the merits of a biological entity, with a couple of glorified meatballs for optical sensors, questioning the telemetric data of a hyper-advanced quantum AI, equipped with the most advanced scanners science could provide.
But as the ship's computer was pretty sure her owner wouldn't notice the pause, she followed it with a resigned, "Yup."
The aforementioned owner kicked away from the asteroid. "Trouble?"
"Nah," responded Zan. "Well, not the getting-blown-up kind. But it's a Galactic Conglomerate shuttle, so the overdue-tax-return kind could be an issue."
"GalCon? Bloody hell. Any chance they haven't spotted us?"
"Oh, yeah. But by the time I finished telling you how small it is, they'd be here. Want me to reel you in?"
"No. But do it anyway."
Minutes later, sans spacesuit but suspicions intact, the tall, lean figure stood on the Spectra's bridge, braced to repel boarders—psychologically, at least. He'd reserve the actual firepower for if the unpaid speeding fines came up. However, one look at the face of the woman stepping through the airlock was all it took to crack his defenses.
"Uva Kwoin! What the hell are you doing here?"
The Councillor's aristocratic, Arcturan features, all high cheekbones and smooth, geometric planes, arranged themselves into the cool smile he remembered so well. "I could ask you the same question. What's the galaxy's most-renowned bounty-hunter doing out here in the boondocks, swinging a pick like a common rock-hopper?"
"Retired bounty-hunter," he corrected. "And what's wrong with rock-hopping? It's a perfectly respectable, honest occupation."
Kwoin arched a sculpted eyebrow. "Yes, I suppose it is. It's just when I think 'respectable and honest' I can't really say yours is the first face I picture. In fact, it would be fair to say that when I think 'respectable and honest' the last person that springs to mind, the very last individual I'm inclined to think of, is the one, the only, the infamous retired bounty-hunter Bonk Strifeman."
He shook his head. "You came all this way just to insult me?"
"Oh Bonk, as usual, you have me all wrong. Right now, honesty and respectability are the very last things I need. Insult you? I'm here to recruit you."
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