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

my head and at least one bounty hunter knew I was on Saphira. The last time I’d been in prison, the warden had taken great pleasure in telling me that O’Keefe was on his way. I hadn’t seen any sign of him, but O’Keefe was so good that I would never see him. Until it was too late. He was bound to have all of the spaceports staked out, even those that only handled freight.

And it wasn’t just the cops and licensed bounty hunters I was worried about. I hadn’t mentioned this to Floyd yet, but I had once made the mistake of crossing one of the galaxy’s biggest Mister Bigs. His people were also looking for me. And they had a red hot poker with my name on it.

When Floyd and I did make our dash for freedom, I wanted to make sure we were prepared for all eventualities. And the best way to do that was to have a big fat emergency fund.

“We’d only need to hit one town if I turned you in for the bounty,” Floyd said.

The jury is still out on whether Floyd has a sense of humour. In this case, I don’t think he was joking. The bounty on my head was ten times the best price I was getting for him – maybe even more than that by now. While the thought of all that cash was attractive, I had a major problem with this idea. I would have to depend on Floyd to get me out of jail. And while I liked him, I didn’t exactly trust him. He’d fired his big gun at me too many times to count. He’d tried to feed me to a dragon – twice in one day. And he had attempted to put a cleaver in my skull. I guess I’ve always had trust issues, but in this case I feel justified. And it’s not just a case of anti-robot prejudice. I don’t trust Floyd in the same way that I don’t trust either of my ex-wives or my ex-husband. It’s personal.

But how do you explain that to an eight-foot, fifteen hundred pound ex-military robot? You don’t. And you don’t try lying either. Floyd had sensors that could pick up my vital signs and that meant he could tell when I was lying. Most times. The only option I had was what my grandpa used to call obfusticatin’.

“We could do that,” I said. “But what if something happens to you and you’re not able to break me out of prison?”

He stayed silent and I took this to be scepticism.

“Two towns back your cooling unit failed and that robot suit of yours shut down. No movement. Nothing. I had to drag you to a repair station. And they said the fix they put in there was only temporary. We need to get you to a proper robot engineer – get you the repairs and upgrades you need.”

“He would have to be an engineer that didn’t ask awkward questions,” Floyd said.

“Yes, he would. And that costs good money.”

“And after the repairs are done, you will trust me?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I said. I was thinking of those sensors. “I don’t trust anyone except myself.”

He gave me the silent treatment again. Maybe he’d figured out that it made me uncomfortable. And he had infinite patience. Unlike me. I sighed.

“We’ll do one more town,” I said. “I’ll figure out some way to get us the extra money. Then we’ll leave. We’ll be off this planet before the end of the month.”

I should know better than to say things like that – it’s practically begging fate to deal us a sqitty hand.

*

I don’t always drag Floyd behind the Trekker, there’s a small flatbed behind the rear seats where he can sit and dangle his legs off the back. All that weight back there affects the handling, but it helps conserve his batteries. And if the Trekker runs out of juice, he can get off and push. When he’s sitting on the back he can turn his head a full hundred and eighty degrees like an owl and watch where we’re heading. The first couple of hundred times you see that it freaks you out, but I figured I’d get used to it. Eventually.

“Someone up ahead,” he said. His eyes are better than mine. The sensors on my dash confirmed what he said – it looked like a truck. A big one. It was stopped on the side of the road.

We were on a long, straight stretch of inter-county highway. The highway passed through a couple of towns along its hundred-mile length and parts of it were even paved. The big truck was probably just delivering supplies to the towns, but it pays to be cautious. I told Floyd to lose an arm and fit his cannon in place of it – just in case.

As we got closer, a man stepped out into the road and waved his arms above his head. He wasn’t dressed like a delivery driver and his truck was just one step up from a bombed-out wreck. He was a scavenger. And there was a good chance he wasn’t alone. I slowed and came to a halt some way short of him, made him walk towards us to talk. He stopped when he was within hailing distance.

“Hello, there!” he called.

I waved a friendly greeting out of the open window. He took this as a signal to move closer.

“Thanks for stopping. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a pickle.” His arm swept towards the truck that was leaning at quite an angle on the side of the road. “Trailer blew a tyre a few miles back.”

The highway was littered with debris – bits of twisted metal, dead coyotes, and curls of shredded tyre. You ran over the small bits and swerved around the big ones – it helped break the monotony.

I flicked a glance towards the truck. There was no sign of anyone else there,