The bridge of the IPD Isosceles was almost silent. Junior officers conversed only when absolutely necessary, and then only in whispers. Even the background murmur of incoming reports seemed to be more muted than was usual.
The harsh hiss of automated respiration dominated the room.
Although all eyes were locked assiduously to their owner's workstations, there was not a person on the bridge who was not painfully aware of every movement of the black-clad, menacing figure that currently stood on the upper observation deck, his back to the room, gazing out at the planet Ratatouille. Barth Vapour, Hard Lord of the Stiff, had a reputation for being particularly unforgiving; if only half of the rumours that surrounded him were true, he had been responsible for the summary executions of more than thirty Imperial officers. Even without the fearsome reputation, he was a terrifying, imposing man; dressed in a black rubberised distillation survival suit, his face perpetually hidden behind a skull-like black respirator mask and helmet, and towering over most people, he was not somebody you would like to meet in a dark alley.
His respirator mask clicked and hissed, clicked and hissed; his stillsuit gurgled occasionally as it recycled and purified his bodily fluids.
They said that his Stiff powers were akin to magic; that he could kill you with a gesture from across the room, that he could block laser blasts with his hand, that he could read minds. Perhaps his scariest feature of all, however, was that the polished black lenses which served as eyes in his mask ensured that one was never entirely sure where he was looking.
Captain John L Pickard was fairly certain that giving the Hard Lord bad news was never a good career move, and he wondered who he had managed to annoy enough that he should draw this thankless assignment. Drawing a deep breath, doing his best to quell the tremors in his hands, he clenched his buttocks tightly and walked up the short flight of stairs to the upper deck. As he approached Lord Vapour, he wondered whether he should announce himself by clearing his throat.
"Yes, Captain Pickard? What do you have?" asked Lord Vapour without turning. His sonorous voice was deep, heavy, with the threat of imminent violence simmering just below the surface.
Pickard swallowed. "My Lord, the Devastator Station plans are not in the main computer. Several additional storage devices were discovered during the security sweep, but Imperial Intelligence reports nothing of value on them. However, there were several escape pods launched from the Botanical Bayou during her capture. The sensor logs show no life signs, and all pods were tracked to the planet's surface. It is possible that the plans were placed in one of them."
Lord Vapour nodded once. "I trust, Captain, that you have taken steps to secure those pods?"
"Yes, my Lord. Two squads have been despatched to the last known location of each pod, with orders to secure their contents and ensure the data does not fall into the wrong hands."
"And the prisoners?"
"Three prisoners were recovered from the ship, my Lord. Preliminary interrogations have proved to be less than forthcoming with anything useful."
"Very well, Captain. I shall oversee their further questioning myself."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Captain?"
"Yes, my Lord?"
"In your opinion, does this planet resemble an eggplant?"
"Um..." Captain Pickard wondered what response the Hard Lord might be expecting. After a moment he decided that, in this instance, the truth might be the safest path to follow. He tore his eyes from the back of the Hard Lord's helmet, and looked out the plasteel window at the looming purple planet. "Yes, my Lord," he ventured. "In coloration, anyway. Perhaps not in its shape." He held his breath.
"Thank you, Captain," said Lord Vapour. "You may go."
"Yes, my Lord. Thank you." Captain Pickard saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and marched stiffly back towards the flight of stairs. Once safely out of the bridge, he turned and trotted urgently towards the nearest men's room.
The escape pod lay on its side, half buried in the bruised purple sands of Ratatouille. Its access hatch was open, as though it had popped open on impact.
Standing at the top of the dune opposite the escape pod, Sergeant Samson 'Mauler' Strong surveyed the scene through his binoculars. The other members of Team Badger stood in a loose group around him, and the members of Team Fennec stood to one side. Fib had insisted that they stand downwind of him. A little way behind them, the stubby shape of an Imperial Troop Transport cast its long shadow across the sand in the light of the just-risen suns.
"What do you think, Jenkins?"
Izzy Jenkins lowered her own binoculars. "No sign of movement, but something opened that hatch. They don't just pop open on impact, after all. Wouldn't be a very good escape pod if the hatch was that loose."
"Anything else?"
Jenkins took another look, increasing the magnification. "Looks like tracks, leading away from the pod. Something came down in it." She frowned inside her helmet. "Logs said no life signs, so I guess it must be a 'bot. Two of them, by the look of those tracks; one bipedal, one on wheels."
Strong nodded. "Yeah, that's how I read it." He pointed into the glare of the rising suns. "Looks like they headed East."
Jenkins nodded back. "Looks like."
"Sergeant Lopez," Strong called to the leader of Team Fennec. "Deploy your men in covering positions here, while we go take a closer look at the pod."
"Sure thing, Sammy boy," Lopez hollered back. "We'll cover your cute little ass, don't you worry about that!"
Strong grinned. Switching briefly to a private channel, he said softly, "I'll be sure to return the favour when we get back to the ship!"
"Sounds like a plan, lover-boy!" Lopez replied on the same channel. She chuckled briefly.
Strong switched back to external speaker. "While we're over there," he continued, "I'll need you to break out the speeder trikes; by the looks of things we'll be needing them. Mikki, you can stay here and lend a hand with that."
Mikhail Tetrakovavonavich sighed. "I always miss out on the fun, Sarge!"
"Don't get too upset, Mikki," said Strong. "There'll be plenty of fun for all on this trip! Okay, Team Badger, you have your orders. Move out."
As the grumbling Mikki headed back to the Transport, followed by a member of Team Fennec, the remaining members of Team Badger spread out into a rough wedge formation and moved down the shifting sandy slope of the dune, blasters unslung but held loosely.
When they reached the pod, halfway up the facing side of the other dune, all three were breathing heavily. Trudging through the loose sand was tiring work, and the two blazing suns, although barely above the horizon, were already pushing the temperature beyond comfortable limits. The internal temperature regulators of their armour struggled to keep them from overheating.
"It sure is hot out here," said Jenkins.
"Yeah," replied Fib, "but it's a dry heat!"
"If you two are done, perhaps we can get on with it?" Strong said. "Fib, check out the pod. Jenkins, you analyse those tracks. See if you can get a better idea of what type of 'bot we're looking for."
"And what will you be doing, Sarge?" asked Fib.
"Me?" said Strong. "Why, I'll be standing over here in the shade!"
Muttering something uncomplimentary—albeit true—about Strong's parentage under his breath, Fib clambered up into the cramped interior of the pod and began to conduct an electronic sweep. Before long, he was out again; he wandered around the side of the pod to join Strong in its shade. "Nothing in there, Sarge. Some residual static; definitely 'bots on board recently. But no data storage devices."
"Yeah," Strong said. "I figured that would be the case. Looks like we've got ourselves another 'bot hunt."
The two men watched as Jenkins clambered back up the slope to join them.
"Anything?" asked Strong.
"Couple of things," said Jenkins. "One of them is an astrobot. Probably an RS or RT series, it's hard to tell them apart. The other is a CP series fuck 'bot, humanoid, secondary skills include translation and protocol."
"I'm impressed," said Sergeant Strong. "You got all that from those tracks, huh?"
"Oh yeah," she said. "Plus, I found this." She held up a small golden rectangle of metal. Inscribed across it was the legend 'CP-Oui-P'.
"Nice," said Strong.
"Real nice," agreed Fib. "Hey Jenkins, just how do you know so much about fuck 'bots anyway?" His voice was so very carefully devoid of implication.
"That's easy," said Jenkins. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do when she can't find any real men..."
Fib laughed. "Real men? You just haven't been looking hard enough."
"Last time I looked, you certainly weren't looking hard enough."
"Okay, people," said Strong, "we've got some 'bots to catch. How about we do that today."
The IPD Isosceles had been joined in orbit around Ratatouille by two more Imperial warships.
"Admiral Feely."
"Yes, Lord Vapour?" Admiral Feely moved to stand in front of the Stiff Lord. He stared nervously up at his own distorted reflection in the black helmet's reflective eye lenses.
"Move the Isosceles out of the planet's gravity well and prepare for the jump to hyperlight speed. We shall return to the Devastator Station immediately."
"Yes, my Lord," said Admiral Feely. "Uh, my Lord?"
"What is it, Admiral?"
"We still have several squads of Troopers down on the planet, my Lord."
"Troopers do not concern me, Admiral. They can hitch a ride with one of the other Dominators, can they not?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Then why, Admiral, are we still in orbit around this awful planet?"
"Yes, my Lord." Admiral Feely turned away and began to relay the Stiff Lord's orders.
Stinging clouds of purple sand swirled around the Shock Troopers as the Transport lifted slowly into the air. Its stubby wings unfolded as it banked, the main engines fired, and it rapidly dwindled to a dot against the pale mauve sky, and was gone.
Seated astride his hovering speeder trike, Sergeant Strong looked around at the group of armoured Troopers. "Standard sweep formation, men, ten yard spread. Keep your speed to a minimum, and your scanners to a maximum. We want to find these 'bots, so if they changed course, we need to spot it."
A ragged chorus of acknowledgement greeted the order.
"If you see anything unusual, don't keep it to yourself."
Another ragged chorus.
"Okay. Fib, you destroy that pod and catch up with us. Let's go!"
Fib's reply was swamped by the rumble of the speeder trike engines being started. Seven of them swept straight across the small dip between the dunes and started their way eastward; Fib took his trike down level with the escape pod and swung the nose round. Three blasts of the trike's weapon were enough to vaporise a section of the pod's hull and ignite its fuel reserves; the pod detonated loudly, sending shards of metal in all directions. By the time they began to rain down on the sand where the Trooper had been, Fib had rejoined the formation.