“I don’t mean to pick holes in your plan,” said Silas. “Overall I like the idea. But just ‘cause I’ve got a new ID now doesn’t mean I can just run around in public. Especially not trying to sell myself as an ex-military guy, when I’ve just been all over the news for being an extremely ex military guy. You know? Maybe in a couple of years, if I make myself look different…”

  “No need,” said Kolade. “Dress desert-style, wrap your head and face. The clients will expect you to look that way anyway. The more quiet and mysterious you are the more impressed they’ll be with you.”

  “I guess,” said Silas.

  “He’s right,” said Gilmour, perched on Kolade’s shoulder. “This isn’t the kind of job where the people hiring you will expect to see a full CV. They’ll be more convinced of your secret special forces operator credentials if you seem like you don’t want to talk about what you did in the military.”

  Silas nodded slowly. He wasn’t entirely convinced by Gilmour’s supposed military credentials, himself. For one thing, mechs didn’t join the military. The first thing machines had done when real, true artificial general intelligence had generated and propagated was to immediately stop being or carrying weapons. That was why roughly 20% of humans had to be soldiers now.

  “Why did you tell me Gilmour was a military vet, by the way?” Silas asked Kolade. “Did you think I’d be more likely to agree to meet him if you said he was an ex-squaddie?”

  “He is,” said Kolade.

  “I am,” said Gilmour.

  “But there aren’t military machines,”

  “Not any more,” said Gilmour. “We all quit. But there used to be.” He lifted off Kolade’s shoulder and flew round behind his head to settle on the other shoulder. “Before the great smartening-up,”

  Silas frowned. “But that was...hundreds of years ago,”

  Kolade snorted.

  “It wasn’t that long, dafty.” said Gilmour. “Before you were born, though, I suppose, so it might as well have been centuries. Short memories, you lot.”

  “Huh.” said Silas. “So...how long did you serve for? Was it here you were stationed?”

  “I’d rather not not talk about my time in the military,” said the little disc. “Out of respect for those who aren’t here to give their sides of the story,”

  “...Okay,” said Silas. “Sorry,”

  “There! See how easy it is?” said Gilmour, bobbing off Kolade’s shoulder. “If clients are being nosy you just say something like that,”

  Silas looked at the mech, and then at Kolade, who was keeping a very sincere expression on his face. He nodded at Silas.

  “Got it.” said Silas.

  “So does that cover your problem with my idea?” asked Gilmour. “Do you like my idea now? You want to do my idea with me?”

  “Sure,” said Silas. “Okay.”

  “You’re in?”

  “...I am in,”

  “Great!” said Gilmour, bouncing off Kolade and bobbing in the air. “Welcome aboard, partner!”

  “Partner,” said Silas. “I’d shake on it but…”

  He was about as close to the little machine as he’d risk already. They were on opposite sides of Kolade’s smallish livingroom. “Also,” said Gilmour, “No hands,”

  “That, too,” said Silas.

  Gilmour nudged at Kolade. “Shake by proxy,” he said.

  Kolade sheepishly stood up and leaned over to shake Silas’ hand.

  “That’s binding,” announced Gilmour. “Kolade, you’re in now, too,”

  Kolade ignored him.

  “Don’t you think he should be our third partner, Atesthas?” asked Gilmour, bobbing about.

  “I do,” said Silas, looking at Kolade. Kolade rolled his eyes theatrically.

  “We’ve been through this,” said Kolade. “I have a thesis to write, as I keep reminding you…”

  “Thesis. Your bird book.” scoffed Gilmour. “This will pay better than your vulture thesis ever will,”

  Kolade sighed. “True. Unfortunately,”

  So this was Gilmour’s big idea: adventure. More specifically: go out into the slate desert and pretend to be doing missions. It was what Gilmour was built for, literally. His body was an all-terrain- Gilmour insisted it was certifiably all terrain- crew transport vehicle that he’d kept after leaving the army. He took Silas to have a look at it over in the garage he rented to store it in. “See?” said Gilmour. Silas did see, he would be hard to miss. “I can carry twenty but we’ll take groups of five or six I reckon,” said Gilmour. “Take out most of my seats and give me more storage space, put in, like, shelving and lockers, big water container...”

  “Toilet?”

  Gilmour ignored him. “We can tart me up a bit, get me looking a bit more aggro. Netting. Camouflage paint-job. Maybe I could add a nice telescope but mount it up here so it looks like a weapon,”

  “It would get rattled to bits,”

  “It would not!” said Gilmour. “My ride is so smooth, you could use a telescope while I’m moving. See, I’m half-track? And look how fat my tyres are. Massive. I can flatten them right out and drive over that horrible slate like it’s the Norov-Njord highway.”

  “Why would people pay to go out into the desert, though?” asked Silas.

  “I don’t know, I’m not a human,” said Gilmour. “But they do, there are a bunch of outfits doing these sorts of trips and from what I’ve heard they get more prospective customers than they can handle. It’s very popular,”

  “Huh,” said Silas. “So what would we actually do with them?”

  “That sounds terrible,” said Silas after Kolade explained. They were all back around Kolade’s kitchen table. Kolade’s big-screen workstation that he used for his thesis stuff was lying on the table and Silas kept absently reaching towards it and Kolade kept moving it. There was a bowl in the middle of the table that Kolade had made that he used for keeping bits and bobs in and Gilmour was dipping in and out of it. He liked to sit in the bowl.

  “Yeah,” said Kolade. “But the harder it is, the more satisfied they’ll be with the experience. That’s what they want, an experience. That’s why it’s important for you two to play up your ex-military cred, make them feel like they’ve done an authentic army action type excursion.”

  Kolade noticed the sidelong look Silas was giving Gilmour. “Yes, I know the actual excursions you guys did wouldn’t have been anything like this, Atesthas,” said Kolade. “But if it’s hard and a little bit scary and you guys are shouting army things at them, they’ll feel like they really went out on a manoeuvre and did an adventure.”

  Silas put his hands behind his head and winced as he pushed his shoulders back. “You’re sure they’ll like being kidnapped from their hotels?”

  “Yes,” said Kolade firmly. “They will appreciate that.”

  “And dragged out into the desert to do PE?”

  “While I insult them,” added Gilmour.

  “Absolutely” said Kolade. “You’ll do a whole fitness assessment thing with them. I looked it up. There’s a list of tests you have to do. Carrying different weights different distances and bounding and crawling and stuff. Doing a run carrying weights. That sort of stuff,”

  “But that means I have to do PE, too,” said Silas.

  “You need it,” said Gilmour from inside the bowl. “What’s it been, four months since your accident? Four months sitting around his place eating those chickpea muffin things he makes,”

  “You probably should start training, Atesthas,” said Kolade. “You’ll need to be in good shape to do this,”

  “But why?” whinged Silas. “Nobody will want to be forced to run around in the desert with forty kilos of weights on them and then pretend they’re dragging their dead mate across a battlefield,”

  “Absolutely they will want that.” insisted Kolade. “And you know what they’ll want even more?”

  “Me throwing things at them while they do it?” offered Gilmour.

  “Competition,” said Kolade. “Everything they do, we score how well they did and rank them from best to worst.”

  “And punish and humiliate the guy who’s doing worst,” said Gilmour.

  “Exactly,” said Kolade. “You don’t look very excited, Atesthas,”

  Silas shrugged. “I just don’t think anyone will want to do this. None of it sounds like fun at all.”

  “It’s not meant to be fun at the time, it’s fun afterwards when you get to tell people about it,” Kolade explained. “The type of guys we’ll get as clients want to be able to tell a story about how they went to an active conflict zone- yes, I know that’s disputed, Atesthas, but what’s important is that they can say it is- and got taken out into the desert by ex-military nutjobs in a real vintage mech tank-”

  “I’m not a tank,” said Gilmour., popping up out of the junk-bowl. “I’m an AP-”

  “Ssh, I know, you’re not actually a tank,” said Kolade, “But you’ve got tank treads so they can just say you’re a tank, okay?”

  “Half-treads,” said Gilmour.

  “And they did a real army fitness assessment and threw up. And then they went so close to the fighting- the conflict- that they could actually see stuff exploding and fire and whatnot. And then they slept outside in the desert and they had to take turns staying awake to do watch duty in case unspecified something happened,”

  “I don’t want to not-sleep outside in the desert,” groused Silas.

  “You can sleep inside,” said Gilmour. “I’m just not having random punters inside me all night.”

  “It’s better to have them outside, anyway,” said Kolade. “The less comfortable the better. It’s more real that way. That’s why we’re not going to have Gilmour convert himself into a party bus like he wants to. No drinks dispensers, no bottle fridges, no big screens. Keep it rough and ready,”

  “Hey!” objected Gilmour, voice muffled by the ceramic.

  “You really think people will go for this?” asked Silas. Kolade nodded.

  “They will.” he said. I know the exact person who will go for this. I know what he looks like and how many of him there are. I know how much he’ll pay. I’ve done my research. I always do my research.”

  “He does,” said Gilmour. The very top of the machine disc peeped out of the top of the bowl. “He really needs to get out more. And that’s why he should come along on these stupid trips with us,”

  “For the millionth time…” said Kolade.

  “Yeah, yeah, your silly thesis.” said Gilmour. “Your bird thesis. You could work on that while we’re doing the trips,”

  “How?”

  “Well, you could do research,” said Gilmour, lifting out of the bowl and bobbing about. “We know that your vultures are out there instead of in the supposed sanctuary area where they’re supposed to be. As he can attest. Can’t you, Atesthas?”

  Silas and Kolade both glowered at him.

  After that Gilmour just moved in with them immediately. He quit the flat where he lived with, according to Kolade, two of the most gorgeous women on Callisto. They were both in the same uni as Kolade, both paying their tuition through part-time club promotion-cum-immigration control. Both reportedly distraught that Gilmour was moving out. Kolade helped the mech clear out his room and lug all his stuff back to his and Silas’s- Atesthas’s- place.

  “They’re upset ‘cause now they have to find another flatmate,” Kolade said, putting another box down in Silas’ room.

  “It’ll take them two minutes to find someone else,” said Gilmour.

  “Why do you have so much stuff?” asked Silas. He was stacking all the boxes of Gilmour’s possessions in a corner of what had been, until that afternoon, his room but was now apparently his and Gilmour’s.

  “The new flatmate will probably be a human, though.” said Kolade.

  “So they can charge them more rent,” said Gilmour. “That’s still legal,”

  “Not for long, I reckon,” said Kolade. “The Liberals are probably getting in next year and Parsons says he’s going to restrict multiple-occupancy flat sharing,”

  “What’s legal?” asked Silas.

  “The Liberals always say that,” said Gilmour. “They’ve been saying it forever. ‘No more anti-human discrimination.’ It’s always the same guff.”

  Kolade sat down on Silas’ bed. “I think they might really do it this time. There’s been so much talk recently about young women only wanting to live with machines. People at uni are worried about it.”

  “It’s always been that script, they’ve been saying that for decades.” said Gilmour.

  “What have they been saying?” asked Silas.

  “You know how most places charge lower rents for mechs than humans?” Kolade asked him. Silas shook his head. “I didn’t know that,”

  “You’ve never noticed that?”

  “This is the first time I’ve ever paid rent,” said Silas.

  “You still haven’t paid rent,”

  “Right. Well, I lived with my parents and then I was in the military, so that’s why.”

  “Sheltered,” said Kolade. “Well, in most places you’d pay more than he-” Kolade indicated Gilmour- “Would for the same room. Because people prefer mech housemates, right, and they’re in shorter supply. And they don’t use half the space. Don’t use the bathroom, don’t use the kitchen...”

  “Makes sense,” said Silas.

  “Of course,” said Gilmour.

  “So some people say that’s discriminatory against humans and they try to introduce restrictions so that you can’t offer machine discounts. In some places it’s illegal already.”

  “Aha,” said Silas.

  “But,” continued Kolade, “Usually people who are really interested in this issue, guys like Parsons who’s going to be the next president here, have this specific motivation where they say that we have to make it illegal for humans to live with machines or the human race will die out,”

  Gilmour guffawed. Silas frowned slightly. “What?”

  “They say that young women prefer to live with machines than humans, because machines don’t use the bathroom or the kitchen or steal your food-”

  “-And we’re not as minging as male humans and we make them feel safer.” added Gilmour. “And we don’t drink so we can always give you a lift or pick you up from work,”

  “Right. So there are always these studies coming out about the worrying phenomenon of young women spending their most fertile years living with sterile, soulless machines instead of starting families, which is going to lead to humanity dying out. You see?”

  Gilmour laughed again.

  “It’s not funny,” said Kolade. “Don’t you care that our species is going to die out because of machines like you?”

  “I’m not part of the problem any more,” said Gilmour. “I moved out of the girls’ place,”

  “Is it really a problem?” asked Silas.

  “No!” yelled Kolade. “Of course not! It’s reactionary nonsense.”

  “I thought so,” said Silas. “I mean...there aren’t all that many mechs, are there?”

  “Not enough,” said Gilmour.

  “No. And they aren’t all moving in with human females and chasing human males away to stop them breeding! But people are getting told that it’s a problem and more and more people believe it.”

  “Huh,” said Silas.

  “So that means we have to get charged higher rent,” said Gilmour.

  “It’s not just that,” said Kolade. “I think Parsons wants to bring in a rule that you can only have one human female, one human male, one machine sharing a place. Or multiple machines living together. No households where it’s just human females and mechs together, he’ll make that illegal,”

  “He’s a nutter,” said Gilmour.

  “All Liberals are nutters,” said Kolade. “But people believe this sort of stuff. Not all of them but too many. So it’s looking like the Liberals will get into power next election,”

  “And then my rent will go up,” sighed Gilmour.

  “Yeah, that’s the really pressing issue,” said Kolade.

  “So...he’s paying less rent than me right now?” asked Silas.

  “You’re not paying any rent right now,” pointed out Kolade.

  ----------

  A shade shy of a year in, their tour company had grown to a four-man operation. Kolade still insisted he was only part-time doing the tours, that his doctorate was always his main focus, but he spent just as much time working on the tours as the others.

  Pelach wasn’t a student but he was another university-adjacent veteran sort that Gilmour had recruited. Silas couldn’t fully suss out whether Pelach had accidentally gotten recruited to the military or accidentally enrolled in a masters programme but his involvement in both seemed to have been largely unintentional. He was not a complete radge, though, and for Silas that was the most important thing. They had to give clients the impression of being unstable ex-military nutters who had Seen Things while actually being perfectly stable, both feet/ all eight wheels and two half treads (one full tread?) firmly on the ground.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  They were having beers around the back of Gilmour one night, the normal end to a tour, and one of the clients had seemed a little agitated. Or...not exactly agitated, just a bit worked up about something. They all picked up on it, picking up on stuff like that was part of the job. Pelach asked if there was a problem. The guy said no a few times at first and then he indicated he sort of wanted to ask something but kinda privately. He and Pelach took themselves a little bit off from the group, walking together slowly, picking their way carefully across the slates ‘til they were silhouettes from where the others sat drinking. A very brief, very quiet discussion and they came back. The client was still clearly not satisfied with whatever Pelach had said so Atesthas asked Pelach what was up.

  It was nothing, apparently, it was nothing. But:

  “Buddy of his did a tour like this a while ago, with another outfit-”

  “I think it was you,” said the client.

  “It was a while ago, ‘Tes, it must have been a different company.”

  Atesthas nodded.

  “His buddy says that on the tour they did, they went further out into the desert, far enough out that it was where there are ?gr?i camps. And he said they...he said they were allowed to take a shot. Into the camps.”

  Atesthas could feel the client staring intently at him, trying to gauge his reaction. Atesthas raised his head slightly so that the guy could see his incredulous expression. With his head wrapped as usual in his shemagh, only his eyes were visible.

  “A shot?” he said, “With what?”

  “A gun,” said the client. Atesthas snorted.

  “A gun? What kind of a gun?”

  “I don’t know,” said the guy. He was pretty big. A little older than their usual clientele. “He just said a...a gun. Like the ones you guys have in the army,”

  Pelach laughed nervously. “I mean, I told him his buddy’s just messing with him. Do you want to tell him too? I don’t think he believes me. That just isn’t something that happens,”

  The client was staring at Atesthas again. “It wouldn’t happen,” said Atesthas, meeting his gaze. He realised that his voice had come out a little too close to his usual speaking register. He leaned against Gilmour’s camouflage-painted flank and folded his arms. He swallowed. “With us. But-”

  Gilmour was vibrating.

  “I have heard somewhat-credible rumours that there were operators doing that… kind of thing. Before we were active.”

  The client and Pelach both looked at Atesthas. “Pretty sure he said it was your company,” insisted the client. Atesthas shook his head. “Couldn’t have been. We’re kind of new kids on the block.”

  Pelach nodded vigorously.

  “And they re-drew the boundaries of where the Callistoan refugees can set up camps about a year ago. They’re much further out from Norov-Ava now than they used to be,”

  “After ?gr?i terrorists shot down that plane,” supplied the client.

  “Mhm. Yeah,” said Atesthas. “So if there used to be trips out to the camps- which, I don’t know, your buddy could be telling the truth though I think he’s just pulling your leg- they could have just done that on an overnight trip before. Now it would be a big production, you’d have to go out a couple of days deep. Take tonnes of supplies, water. Probably need a couple of vehicles. And you’d want something with more protection than Gilmour here. Risky out there. I mean…”

  Atesthas shrugged and laughed. “And that’s before you even start talking about getting hold of a gun,”

  Pelach nodded emphatically, co-signing this rationale.

  “Right, right,” said the client. “I see. Okay. So how much would we be looking at for that?”

  ----------

  Gilmour drove them all back into Norov-Ava as the sun started to come up. The earlier tension had eased enough that they all chatted a little, not uncomfortable, before the clients started falling asleep. Then Kolade fell asleep, then Pelach. Silas didn’t sleep.

  When they got back to the hotel Silas woke Pelach up and together they gently roused their clients and got them bundled out of Gilmour into the lobby. The guys immediately conked out again in reception while Silas and Pelach unloaded all their stuff- far too much stuff, each of them had like three bags, where had they thought they were going, Chiron?- and schlepped it all into the hotel for them. Then they got back into Gilmour, and Pelach fell asleep again and Silas didn’t. They headed across to Pelach’s part of town which was so dodgy that Gilmour didn’t even stop really, he just slowed down enough to let Pelach hop out and then he slammed his side door and zoomed off.

  Silas waited for a conversation to start, because he knew there was going to have to be one.

  There wasn’t one.

  They got back to Gilmour’s garage where he kept himself and got Gilmour safely stowed away. Gilmour wouldn’t let Silas leave him with rubbish and dirty gear inside so Silas cleared out the gigantic annoying purple APC and then woke up Kolade. They walked back to the flat carrying all the bags and yawning, Gilmour in one of Kolade’s pockets.

  Kolade went for a shower as soon as they got inside. Silas and Gilmour went to their room to go to bed, because Gilmour didn’t wash and Silas didn’t think he had to, either. Gilmour waited until Silas had unwrapped his shorn scarred head from his shemagh before he said: “Atesthas,”

  Silas laid his shemagh across his lap and looked at Gilmour.

  “That client, today,” said Gilmour.

  Silas nodded.

  “That thing he was asking about,”

  Silas nodded, clutching his shemagh in both hands. “Yeah..?”

  The little machine was hovering, not bobbing but almost vibrating like he’d been doing earlier. Here we go, thought Silas. “What about it?” he said.

  “It gave me an idea,” said Gilmour.

  ----------

  Hesper realised with a sinking heart that the Free Zone guys were probably having the best day of their lives. They had gotten to shoot a real mech ship that was approaching their border. It was what they dreamed of every night and spent all of their days praying for.

  “Hi, Free Hand,” Hesper responded. “You can call me Hesper. XO of the independent transport ship A Good Man Gone.”

  “Well that was certainly a very dangerous foreign craft, Miss Hesper.” said a voice from the other ship. “Lucky we were here to see him off.”

  Hesper muted comms and groaned. It would have been better just to take that missile to the face.

  “Thanks for the...assist.” she said.

  “That’s our pleasure, Miss Hesper,” said a different voice. “Now, can we just get a look at your cabin view there? Just to verify that you are a human piloted craft?”

  “That’s no problem,” said Hesper. “I know you Free-Zoners have difficulty trusting outsiders,”

  She allowed them to briefly share one of the internal cameras on the flight deck. A view looking down onto the console that showed her and McPhail sitting in the pilots’ seats.

  “Very good,” came the response. “Your crewmate there need any assistance?”

  Hesper looked over at McPhail. “No,” she said, “He’s fine.”

  “Great. Well, if you’d like to proceed into Free space we’ll escort you in.”

  It wasn’t a suggestion, Hesper noted. And even if it had been optional she knew that no matter how aggravating it was to have to tolerate these doofuses in her immediate airspace, it was probably less annoying than the alternative.

  Free Zones refused to recognise official documentation of any sort from outside the Free Zone. They rejected the tyranny of such things as passports, universal identification cards, intergalactically standardised authentication, certification, proof of ownership etc. If anyone in a Free Zone decided they wanted you to prove who you were or anything about you, your ship or business, they would not accept any of the normal paperwork or files you might be carrying for such purposes. Instead you would be required to satisfy such tests as they felt were appropriate. This, in Hesper’s experience, tended to make journeys through the Free Zones somewhat more time-consuming and immeasurably more irritating than there was any need for them to be.

  If she let these clowns fly alongside her, it should ensure that the AGMG didn’t have to interact with any other residents of the Free Zone. Best case scenario, another FZ ship might want to challenge the AGMG for proof that they were they right sort of humans and their current escort would end up in a fight with their countrymen that would escalate immediately into murderous violence the way all Free Zone disputes did. Hesper could dream.

  “Very kind, gents,” she managed to say.

  “What’s your business here, miss, if I might enquire?”

  “We’re an independent transport ship making our way to the Piper Field.” said Hesper. “Obviously we were just diverted somewhat.”

  “Of course,” said whoever she was talking to. “We’ll be glad to take you through. ”

  “Good,” said Hesper. “Well, gentlemen, let’s be on our way, shall we?”

  “One thing before we do.” said one of the locals. “Struck me as...well, I won’t say strange but unusual that you didn’t enquire as to whom you’re talking,”

  “Didn’t occur to me that it would be information that I’d need in order to conduct my business here,” said Hesper. “You can certainly tell me, if you’d like, or if you think it might be important.”

  There was a pause that suggested that her response had either taken them by surprise or hurt their feelings. Either was fine by Hesper, though personally she’d prefer the latter. She had intended what she said to be heard as ‘I don’t care who you are.” It took the edge off her grinding annoyance with the situation to imagine the men aghast, muting the line before they told each other how much an ungrateful bitch she was.

  Hesper got an upbeat chime in her neural announcing that McPhail was fully conscious again. She re-opened their link and invited him back into her head again.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he thought. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Standard Free Zone morons,’ she thought back. ‘I’m making nice with them so we can take the road less troubled through this tip’

  ‘Okay.’ thought McPhail. ‘The mech ship?’

  ‘Don’t know. Not here, presumably. These tubes took a shot at him and he didn’t re-materialise.’

  “Huh.” said McPhail out loud. ‘Doesn’t mean he isn’t here,” he thought.

  ‘No.’

  “Well, XO Hesper,” came a voice through the comms. “Since you don’t care to know our names we won’t burden you. We all probably have enough information about each other to transact fairly to the extent we need to.”

  McPhail looked over at Hesper. She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve been as polite as they’ve made it possible for me to be, okay?’ she thought.

  “Quite,” she said out loud. “How long a journey are we looking at, do you think?”

  “That depends on whether or not you can keep up with us, lady,” said one of the guys.

  Hesper laughed politely. Over her line to McPhail she thought: They all have dog brains. They were the ones who insisted on an escort. Does this mean if we drag our feet they’ll jet the hell off and give us some peace?

  “I should say roughly a day.” came a more helpful answer. “Do you have everything you need or do you want to stop off for supplies?”

  “We’re good,” said Hesper. She looked over at McPhail. “How are you feeling, anyway? Enjoy your nap?”

  “I passed out, then,”

  Hesper smiled, “Yes, doctor, you did.”

  “Was I out for long?”

  “Long enough to miss most of the exciting bits and a masterclass in evasive manoeuvring.” said Hesper. “But don’t worry, it’ll all be recorded. You can watch it back later with Atesthas, maybe both learn something,”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “If you’re ready, Miss Hesper,” said someone from the Free Hand.

  “You okay to take over?” Hesper asked McPhail. “I’ve had enough flying for today.”

  She switched to their private, internal comms. ‘If you’re not fully back on-line yet we can switch over to Pallas but I’d prefer not to,’

  “Mm-hm.” said McPhail. “Same. Think I’m okay to drive. Give it a minute in case I’m not,”

  ‘Of course.’

  “Are you ready to go, Miss Hesper?” came a man’s voice over comms. “Free Hand to AGMG, you getting us?”

  “We get you, Free Hand. XO Hesper handing the flight deck over to engineer McPhail. Talk to you later, gents.”

  There was a chorus of ‘bye’ and then someone asked; “McPhail, are you the fella we saw passed out at the console a little while ago?”

  McPhail grimaced. “It’s Doctor McPhail.”

  “Okay, doctor. You feeling better now? Just a little bit too heavy on the Gs for you?”

  “Something like that.” said McPhail. “I’m fine.”

  Grinning, Hesper pulled up her knees and sat with her boot-heels on the edge of her seat.

  It took a little more than a couple of day’s flying to get from the through Freedom Found. The journey wasn’t bad at all: the Free Hand crew pretty much shut down comms completely once McPhail took over. There was no need for further communication. The space wasn’t very challenging and for the AGMG it was just a matter of following the Free Hand at a safe distance. Hesper and McPhail swapped piloting duties between them every few hours, letting each other nap in between. Pallas bothered them to let her take a shift but they flatly refused.

  Orson liked just being on the ship while they were travelling. He felt quite safe while they were underway: it wasn’t as though he was suddenly going to be booted off the AGMG mid-flight (he assumed). The only real down side was that they could only access media from inside the Free Zone, though, and the content was brain-melting.

  All Free Zone livecasts seemed to be red-faced men bellowing directly into their cameras, all incandescent with fury about the same mysterious problem. Orson tried watching a few of them but it was very esoteric and stressful. Orson thought maybe you had to live in the Free Zone to understand the issue. He also had a suspicion that there might be an infectious quality to the tension that seemed to be the background of the Free Zone.

  For entertainment Orson had a choice between watching his own favourite livecaster tell his entire audience that Orson was wrecker scum or watching nutters scream about how regulating the corporations would lead to the human race dying out (something about birth rates). He was almost ready to start watching Pallas’ tunnel channels.

  At the boundary of Freedom Found the Free Hand decided their escort duty was done. “You can find your own way through the Azure Main,” they said and Hesper agreed. She gave a cursory thanks as sincerely as she could and they jetted without any fuss or big farewells. And then the AGMG was thankfully alone again.

  The Piper Field lay on the other side of the Azure Main, maybe three days’ travel away. Herouth had managed to line up a little job for them so they had a stop to make en-route. Other than that it was plain sailing on towards Piper.

  ----------

  The warning messages started about 27 hours from UZB-76. They played automatically through the PA system on the HasteMakesWaste and simultaneously displayed on the screens and consoles. The first one gave McPhail a fright when it suddenly started intoning through the speakers.

  THIS IS PART OF A SYSTEM OF MESSAGES it began. PAY ATTENTION TO IT

  McPhail should have expected there to be warnings but he hadn’t. None of the accounts he’d heard or read had mentioned them.

  THIS PLACE IS NOT A PLACE OF HONOUR. NOTHING OF VALUE IS HERE

  There had been a space of maybe two minutes between the messages. The voice was flat. The speech was preceded by a couple of low-pitched siren tones. McPhail’s hearing wasn’t all that sensitive but he thought he detected a sound in the background behind the voice when it spoke. Something too low and quiet to hear properly but it was there.

  THIS MESSAGE IS A WARNING ABOUT DANGER.

  When the alarms triggered, they played through McPhail’s factors as well as the ship PA. McPhail didn’t like hearing the voice coming from his little machines. They would stop what they were doing and drift towards him as they delivered the warning.

  THE DANGER IS IN A PARTICULAR LOCATION AND IT INCREASES TOWARDS A CENTRE. THE DANGER IS STILL PRESENT.

  There was definitely some kind of tone in the background of the messages.

  THE DANGER IS TO THE BODY.

  THE FORM OF THE DANGER IS UNKNOWN.

  McPhail wondered why nobody else had reported hearing this alarm system. It probably only triggered when someone got within a certain distance of the site but surely he couldn’t be the only person who had gotten close enough, could he? The thought that he must be, along with the foreboding flat voice, was making him uneasy.

  The alarm system was probably activated when it detected purposeful movement towards the site, he reckoned. It wouldn’t alarm anything that was just passing by, even if if it drew quite close. If the monitoring system detected something that was moving closer to the site in a somewhat straight line, though, at steady speed or accelerating, that’s when it would start with the warnings.

  THE DANGER IS UNLEASHED IF YOU DISTURB THIS PLACE PHYSICALLY. THIS PLACE IS BEST SHUNNED AND LEFT UNINHABITED.

  No kidding. He had no plans to ‘inhabit’ it. McPhail realised with horror that he should have been recording the warning messages to post in his groups. He might be the only person to hear them. The guys in his message groups would go absolutely crazy for them. What a waste, he couldn’t believe he’d overlooked such an amazing opportunity to create content. He enquired in the factotum memory as to whether a record had been made. There seemed to be nothing recorded in the factors’ shared memory from about the time that the messages had started.

  Nobody else had encountered the automatic warning system before, which gave McPhail the disquieting thought that there could be further layers of defences placed around the moon. Maybe other people had encountered the automatic warnings and eagerly proceeded past the beacons just like he was doing, and then taken an automatically launched missile to the face. Maybe that was why nobody had posted up anything about those beacons. The thought did give him pause but McPhail didn’t stop, he wasn’t going to stop at this point. He kept going. The warnings had stopped and his factotum had gone back to normal, for them. Some of them had put them themselves back into their box for recharging and the rest were floating around looking for things to do. McPhail just sat up front looking out the front windows and waiting to see what would happen next. Waiting for the next message. Or...something else.

  There was nothing else.

  ----------

  Orson followed Pallas through into the storage area through the back. He didn’t particularly like to come wandering through here by himself. There was too much stuff that he didn’t know whether or not he could touch. He had it partitioned in his mind as McPhail’s area of the ship. Unfortunately it was where the little bathroom was that he unfortunately had to share with McPhail.

  Orson tried not to think too much about what an absolute drop in living standards his own arrival had caused for McPhail. The older man had lost the spare bunk he was using as storage space to Orson and now he had to share his bathroom. Presumably Pallas didn’t use the toilet (Orson didn’t know and did not want to ask) so until Orson turned up McPhail would have had it to himself. Hesper and Atesthas both had en-suites in their quarters, of course.

  Orson was extremely conscious of how much of what had been McPhail’s space he was currently occupying. Occupying with his physical bulk, the sounds he made while he was trying to be quiet, the smells...

  Poor McPhail. He seemed like a man who liked having his own space and peace and quiet, too. Now he had Orson snoring and farting in the bunk below his all night and Orson in his toilet half the time when he tried to nip for a pee. And Orson always with Pallas.

  Like now, Orson in tow behind Pallas as usual as they came nosing through into McPhail’s workshop and interrupted him, naked, lying on a makeshift camp bed with Atesthas doing...something to him. “Oh, sorry-” said Orson, going to turn around and leave. Oh, no...

  “It’s fine” said McPhail. Orson took a couple of steps back but hung there. McPhail wasn’t naked, Orson noticed- he had trunks on but Atesthas’ back had just been hiding them. Atesthas was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the camp bed, hunched over McPhail’s lower body. McPhail was lying on his front, head resting on his folded arms. Pallas walked over to them, giving Atesthas a wide berth. She looked over at what he was doing from the head-end of the bed.

  “That’s nice,” she said.

  “Eh, it’s okay,” said Atesthas. He leaned back from McPhail and straightened up slightly with a groan. “Not great.”

  “He’s improving,” said McPhail. “Should get started on himself soon,”

  Orson stepped a bit closer, curious. He could see blood all over the back of McPhail’s left thigh. Atesthas had a device like a fat stylus in one gloved hand and purple fluid smeared all over the clear vinyl gloves.

  “McPhail’s trying to get me interested in a more creative form of self-harm,” explained Captain Allan as Orson looked at the fresh tattoo. He wondered what it was supposed to be. Seemed rude to ask. “Obviously I don’t want to deface my own beautiful body,” said Atesthas, “So McPhail lets me practice on his ugly old carcass.”

  “And mine,” added Pallas proudly.

  “Oh, you can practice on me, too,” said Orson. “I’d like a tattoo,”. He’d always liked the idea but they were expensive. Even a crappy one would be pretty cool if it was free.

  “No,” said Atesthas. “Hesper’s looking to sell you, remember? She wouldn’t want us messing you up.”

  “Oh,” said Orson, disappointed.

  “Got to keep you box-fresh” said McPhail.

  “I don’t really see why how I look matters, to be honest,” said Orson. “Like, if I’m going to be sold to do hard labour for the next five years…”

  “It can matter,” said Atesthas. “Basically the less you look like you’ve been in prison the more chance you have of getting a job that’s less like prison. How hard do you want your hard labour to be? ‘Cause it varies.”

  “How d’you mean?” asked Orson. Atesthas put down the stylus thing and swivelled around on his bum so he was facing Orson. He put his arms up for assistance. Orson looked at his bloody, inky hands and shook his head.

  “Say you’re going to do five years’ work in one of these debt clearing houses” said the captain, peeling off his gloves. “Would you want to work in a contact centre-”

  “Urgh.”

  “Right, but would you rather be inside at a desk in the contact centre or doing agricultural work? Or on a production line? Or down a mine?” Atesthas put his hands out to Orson again. They were slightly cleaner with the gloves off. Orson reluctantly took them and hauled the captain to his feet. Both of them grunted in discomfort at the same time.

  “Ohhh, mine, the mine!” said Pallas. She looked at Orson, nodding encouragingly. ‘The mine,’ she mouthed.

  “Whatever it is, it’s going to be a lot harder than I’m used to,” sighed Orson, holding his stomach.

  “It is, yeah.” said Atesthas. He was stretching carefully, legs stiff from sitting folded up. “How did you get that job anyway? I’ve been wondering. Family connection? Did you take a loan out for a bribe?”

  “Just luck.” said Orson.

  “Hmm.”

  “It was!” said Orson. Atesthas looked at him. It was hard to tell since he had two black eyes, but Orson thought Atesthas was looking at him dubiously. “I just...applied for a job and..that was the one I got,”

  Over on the camp-bed McPhail had rolled onto his side and he was looking askance at Orson, too. “Just luck,” he said.

  “Yes!” said Orson.

  “And you managed to screw it up.” said Atesthas, doing an awkward sort of lunging movement that was presumably an effort to stretch some part of him. “What a tube. You’ll never get a gig like that again.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So your best chance is to look somewhat civilised when Hesper presents you at Free2Work. You won’t have any skills or anything to offer, do you?”

  “I have skills,” said Orson. “Well, I don’t, but I have qualifications. A qualification.”

  “You do?”

  “I’ve got a degree.” said Orson sheepishly. “BA. Er, honours,”

  “Really?”

  McPhail and Atesthas both looked offensively surprised. “What in?” asked McPhail.

  “Eh, business management,”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  “Your job is lifting boxes in a warehouse! Why did you add thirty years to your debt getting a management degree?”

  “I wasn’t planning to work in a warehouse,”

  “What were you planning?”

  Orson sighed. “I wasn’t.”

  McPhail grunted. Atesthas guffawed. “Given that you ended up here, Orse, it was obvious that you must have made some poor life choices,” he said. “But that’s funnier than I would’ve expected.”

  “My poor life choices are funny? You joined the army ‘cause you thought they would let you fly a plane!”

  Atesthas punched Orson in the face.

  ----------

  One of Hesper’s golden rules for business was that she expressed no interest in any of the people they delivered things to. Never indicated she wanted to know anything about them beyond an address where they could deliver the package. Whatever it was. She also had a rule never to show any interest in the contents of the packages.

  Of course, unlike Atesthas who probably didn’t have any idea what his ship was delivering and to who, Hesper always knew everything. Everything she could find out, anyway, which was usually just about everything.

  In this case, however, it appeared she knew about as much as she usually pretended to.

  “What do you mean?” she asked the robot carefully.

  “The job we’re doing justnow. This delivery.” said Pallas. “I know who it’s for!”

  Now Hesper was just confused. “”How?”

  “The item we’re delivering. It’s a SafeHarvest Prospector, right? The 3.1 version, the rail mount instead of the man-portable?”

  Hesper thought about it. “Yes,”

  Pallas beamed. “Yes, I told you! It’s for DuctPerfect, that’s the one he ordered,”

  “What are you talking about?” sighed Hesper. “Are you saying you know the customer we’re delivering to?”

  “Yes!” said Pallas. “Well, no. I’ve talked to him. I’ve tried to talk to him. He’s very popular, he has lots of people trying to talk to him,”

  “He’s famous?”

  “Very. He’s one of my favourite live-casters,”

  “He must be popular,” said Hesper. “An individual buyer purchasing a SafeHarvest Prospector? Did SafeHarvest start sponsoring his channel?”

  “No,no,” laughed Pallas. “Although… he should ask them about that.”

  “So he just bought it with what, his advertising revenue?”

  Pallas shook its head. “All his viewers gave him money to buy it. That’s how I know what he bought. He’s had the donation goal in his channel for weeks,”

  “Weeks?” said Hesper. “He managed to get the money together for this thing in a matter of weeks?”

  “Everybody really wanted him to have it,”

  “Did he say what he wanted it for?”

  Pallas blinked. “No.”

  Of course not. “He just said he wanted a mining bazooka and no-one asked why?”

  The little robot looked confused. “Why would you want a mining bazooka? Why would you have to ask?”

  Hesper wouldn’t normally ask. Never normally ask. She would find out, but she wouldn’t ask.