A Fistful of Trouble (Outlaws of the Galaxy Book 2) by Paul Tomlinson (books on motivation TXT) 📗

incoming ship, Harmony shook her head. “Boys always think bigger is better.”

The Colonel had sent something bigger than a normal cargo lifter. It was an old freighter that had been retrofitted with large calibre guns so it could also serve as a gunship. Maybe Harmony was right and the Colonel felt the need to impress the military guys. Or at least warn them against trying any kind of double-cross.

Compared to the Countess of Skidmark, the freighter was a fashion model. Admittedly she was one with a decades-old drug habit and three ex-husbands behind her, but the skills of a good surgeon meant that nothing was sagging. Her paint-job was recent and covered all but the worst blemishes. Her landing gear was gleaming and well-oiled. And her engines gave out a healthy roar. She was called the Warrior Princess, and may the gods bless all who sailed in her. Especially us, if we managed to get aboard.

“Another old bucket,” Harmony said. Women can be so harsh.

The freighter’s engines angled downwards, kicking up a good-sized dust storm. Harmony and I covered our mouths and noses with our scarves and pulled down our goggles. We ran doubled-over, getting closer to the ship, using various bits of landing pad detritus for cover. We made it to a small depression in the ground within spitting distance of the Colonel’s freighter. We were both covered in dust, our hair and clothes thick with it, but this served as a sort of camouflage.

A steep stairway unfolded from the cockpit of the freighter and the airlock door hissed and popped open. A tall, thin figure dressed in black appeared in the doorway.

“Casey!” Harmony said.

The sling was gone but his arm was still in a cast. He seemed as unimpressed by this situation as any other and made his way down the steps without hurrying.

Casey and the leader of the military black-marketeers greeted one another. We weren’t close enough to make out what was being said, but I could guess from the body language that the soldier was complaining about Casey being late to the rendezvous and Casey was just shrugging it off.

At a signal from the soldier, a hatch opened in the underbelly of the squit-ship, dropping down to form a ramp. A flat platform mounted on small caterpillar treads trundled down the slope carrying an ordinary-looking cargo container. When it reached the ground, the mobile platform came to a halt and two of the soldiers stepped up to unlatch the fastenings and swing open the double doors of the container. Casey approached to examine the contents. Behind him, the belly of the Colonel’s freighter was also opening and a ramp slid down.

From our position, we could only see what was hanging inside the container on the right side, but the same thing must have been mirrored on the left. Dull grey metal gleaming like a new handgun. A dozen not-quite-human forms, hanging like skinny suits of armour.

Harmony gave an exaggerated shiver beside me. “Why do they remind me of insects?”

Military robots are always designed to have some sort of psychological impact. Floyd was meant to unnerve the enemy by his sheer size. These newer machines combined elements of human skeletons, powerful handguns, and nasty insects with shiny carapaces. People of a nervous disposition look away now.

“How much do you think they’re worth?” Harmony asked.

I shrugged. An item is worth whatever someone is prepared to pay for it. “Connie said they cost twenty-six million. But the Colonel is probably paying a fraction of what the military paid the manufacturer.”

Casey was satisfied with what was on display. The soldiers shut and bolted the doors again. The platform started moving again, trundling the container towards the Colonel’s freighter.

“As soon as the container is between us and them, we go with it up into the hold,” I said.

Harmony patted my arm to say she was ready. I sent one of the drones ahead to check out the freighter’s hold, keeping it close to the ground.

“Two people in the hold,” I said. “Armed. Both on the far side. They’re watching the soldiers.”

Harmony nodded. We both tensed, ready to dash across the dusty concrete.

“Wait!” she cautioned.

One of the Colonel’s men appeared from behind the container, looking to make sure that the moving platform was properly lined-up with the ramp of the Warrior Princess. As long as he was there, we couldn’t move. We watched the container edge forwards, getting closer and closer to the ship – our window of opportunity slipping away.

“We need a distraction,” I said.

“I could explode the septic tank.”

“You planted explosives?”

Harmony shook her head. “Don’t need them. I can just turn up the pressure on the pump.”

Thankfully, we avoided the need for a squit-storm. The Colonel’s man disappeared from view, satisfied that the platform was on target.

Harmony and I crawled forward until we were an arm’s length from the moving treads of the freight platform. We stood and walked alongside the container, straight up into the belly of the Colonel’s freighter.

We hid in the shadows behind some cargo nets, in case the Colonel’s men lifted the container off the platform. But it stayed where it was. The soldiers must have made them a gift of the mobile platform. The military had thousands of them.

The freighter’s ramp slid back into place and the hatch rose into position. Before it was closed, I could hear the engines of the Countess of Brown-Squidgy firing up. The soldiers really didn’t want to hang around. I hoped the ACID Interceptor was poised to do some intercepting.

The deck beneath us shuddered as the hatch slammed shut and the massive bolts slid home. Then we felt a steadier vibration as the engines were wound up.

“Stage one accomplished,” Harmony said, grinning at me in the dim light.

I didn’t want to discourage her by saying this had been the easy part.

Two of the Colonel’s men walked around the container, fixing clamps to hold it and the platform in position. No one wanted to be crushed if the cargo shifted.