Comrades, Credits and a Decent Bacon Butty

[onca]

The small freighter Haul Lass drifts lazily through the Jersey Debris Field, its peaceful ambulation broken by the occasional blast of weapon fire from its lone turret. One nugget of scrap is disintegrated, followed another and another. A patrol of Junker fighters slows briefly to scan the Lass, but then continues on, deciding that challenging the lowly pilferer is not worth their time.

"Bloody louts!" grumbles Pete, the Lass' sole human operator, from the weapons panel. "There was a time when every brigand flying by the seat of his pants would come three systems over to pirate old Cabover Pete. Now I can't even get a scabby Junker to drop out of cruise."

The door hisses open, followed by a tinny scraping sound. The robot head is dragging itself across the floor by its flexible mandible.

Pete glances at it with some distaste. "You know I hate it when you do that. It's just creepy."

"And how else am I supposed to get around?"

"I dunno... can't you sprout a propeller or something."

"No. Cartoonish powers are a little beyond my programming. It's funny like that." With a great deal of dexterity the head hefts itself up and places itself onto Pete's console. "Did you hear back from IND?"

Pete grimaces. "Yes, dear, I did."

"Well, what did they say?"

"I have to apply to their recruitment agency. Can you believe it? I have to apply, like some snot-nose graduate straight out of Cambridge Uni. I can just imagine it, my financial future being presided over by a panel of elbow-patch wearing HR goons."

"Doesn't sound too promising."

"Well, I was personally contacted by the governor in charge, that's one thing at least. So the application may just be a formality."

"But that actually sounds promising indeed! So what are we doing in this debris field?"

"We are here, my nagging robot, mining for scrap."

"I can see that. Shouldn't you be filling out the application?"

"Yes well... right after I fill the hold," mumbles Pete.

"You're procrastinating. Why? How hard could that application possibly be?"

"They want me to write a haiku." Pete snorts with disgust. "A haiku! What the bloody hell is a haiku, anyway?"

Robot head goes into dictionary mode. "Haiku: Noun. Traditional Kusari poem consisting of 3 lines of 17 syllables--"

Pete cuts in. "I know what a haiku is, smarty. It was a rectal question."

"I think you mean 'rhetorical'."

"I know what I mean."

*******

Later that day, Pete sits at the filthy table in the ship's cramped wardroom, which also happens to be the cramped sleeping quarters with the bed folded into the wall. There are five coffee cups on the table along with a piece of paper with a couple of lines of text written on it, and there are scrunched by bits of paper strewn all about the room. Pete sits back with his hands behind his head, clicking on a pen and looking sour.

The robot head scrapes itself into the room, bulldozing a number of screwed up papers before it. Pete rolls his eyes. "I don't know why you insist on using those ancient writing implements," says robot head. "Wouldn't a pad be much easier, and cleaner?"

"I like the tactile feedback," grumbles Pete.

Robot head hefts itself up to the tabletop somehow. "How's it progressing? You've been at this for hours, you must have penned a new branch of Buddhism by now." Robot head scrutinizes the paper in front of Pete, and Pete moves to cover it with his hands, but then stops bothering.

Robot head reads:
"Bacon, bacon, the musical fruit
The more you eat, the more you toot
Give me money you sods."

Silence. Robot head says at last, "Yeah, that... um... really is quite horrible."

Pete growls and springs to his feet, scattering papers everywhere.

"Where are you going now?" says robot head.

"To shoot some more scrap. It helps me think."