Princess Labia Orgasma stood behind the plasteel observation window and stared into the medical bay. Her dainty lips were pursed into a worried frown.
Beside her stood a humanoid 'bot, its metallic skin gleaming gold under the bright lights of the medical complex. "His" designation was CP-Oui-P, and he looked surprised more than worried. Of course, he always looked surprised; his face was a simple smooth sheet of metal, with round crystalline eyes, and a round, latex-lined hole for a mouth. The CP-Oui series 'bots were primarily designed as sex toys, with secondary functions including etiquette and protocol. Since first encountering Lurk on the planet Ratatouille, he had become accustomed to being referred to as "Seepy Weepy".
"Do not worry, Mistress Libby," said Seepy Weepy in a voice which sounded as though it carried enough concern for the both of them. "I am sure that both Master Mal and Master Lurk will be fine. These medibots are very good at their jobs."
Beside Seepy, a short domed astrobot beeped and whistled urgently. This was RT-4RT, Seepy's long-time companion. "She" was commonly referred to as "Arty Farty".
"Hush, Arty," scolded Seepy. "Mistress Libby does not need to hear that."
"What?" said Libby. "What did she say."
"Oh, nothing, Mistress Libby," said Seepy. "Pay her no mind."
"Tell me what she said," said Libby.
"Oh," said Seepy. "Well, she merely said that she cannot see what is going on."
Libby turned to stare into the glowing eyes of Seepy Weepy, then both the human and the humanoid 'bot looked down at Arty Farty. The astrobot whistled, and rotated her domed head to illustrate her point. Her round lens was below the bottom edge of the plasteel window.
"I did say it was nothing," said Seepy apologetically.
"Hmmm." Libby went back to staring through the window.
In the medical bay, Mal Single lay on a narrow bunk. A pad of white gauze was taped to the front of his shoulder; another—although Libby could not see it—was taped across the exit wound on his back. He was a little pale from blood loss, but a drip fed essential nutrients into his body through the needle inserted in his arm. He was asleep.
At the back of the medical bay, a large clear cylinder bubbled with pink-tinged healant. Floating in the slimy goop, naked but for a loincloth and a respirator mask strapped across his face, was Lurk Splitwhisker. He thrashed and twitched against the loose restraints which held him in place, and Libby knew that he was dreaming again—he was frequently plagued by nightmares.
He had suffered extensive frostbite to his extremities; one of the fingers on his left hand had turned gangrenous, and had been amputated. Along with the leg that Mal had been forced to amputate to save his life, and the hand which he had lost to the light rapier duel with his father, Lurk was rapidly running out of limbs. A new mechanical leg had been fitted to replace the old. It was practically indistinguishable from his human leg; the circle around his thigh which marked the join between flesh and plastic was the only visible reminder that his left leg was artificial. There was a similar circle around his right forearm.
The healant in which he floated was helping his body to accept the new limb, and repairing other damaged tissue. Libby wondered if it would help repair his tortured mind.
"I'm sure they will be fine," said Seepy again.
Lurk opened his eyes. He was lying in a narrow bed in a Rebel Coalition medical bay.
"Welcome back, old buddy," said a familiar voice. "How do you feel?"
Lurk blinked and looked around. Libby and Mal were beside his bed. Mal had his arm in a sling.
"I'm a little tired," Lurk replied to Mal. "And I've got an itchy foot. Other than that I'm fine. What happened to you?" He nodded at the sling.
Mal grinned. "Got shot rescuing you," he said. "It's nothing."
"Rescuing me?" asked Lurk. "Why? What happened?"
"We were hoping you could tell us that," said Libby. "What do you remember?"
"Nothing much," said Lurk. "I was out on patrol, about to head back in. I spoke to Mal, I think?"
"Sure did," confirmed Mal. "Said something about a trace reading of metal. Some space junk you wanted to check out."
"Oh yeah," said Lurk. "And then..." He frowned. "I seem to remember falling. My snowrunner fell over. I guess she got shot too?"
Mal nodded. "Looks like we had a sniper out there. We drove him off, but found no trace of him; chances are he's still out there somewhere."
"Then I was trapped, couldn't move—my leg. I think my leg is broken?"
"Yeah, it was. When they retrieved it, it was crushed and gangrenous. Doc says if I hadn't cut it off when I did, you'd have died for sure."
Lurk was staring at him in horror. "You cut my leg off?" he said.
"Well, yeah," said Mal. "You were pinned pretty tight beneath your 'runner, and it was just me and the blizzard. I had no choice."
"You cut my leg off?" shrieked Lurk.
"And saved your life, yeah," said Mal. "Besides, based on the state of your leg when they recovered it, the Doc says he'd have removed it if I hadn't."
"You cut my leg off," muttered Lurk, gazing down at where his torso disappeared beneath the sheet.
"You're welcome," said Mal darkly.
"Well," said Libby softly into the silence which followed, "that could have been handled a little better."
Mal shrugged. "I'm a smuggler, not a diplomat."
Libby placed her hand on Lurk's arm. "Lurk, he saved your life; he had no other choice."
Lurk met her sympathetic gaze. "But my leg..."
"Replaced, better than new," she told him. "You've got the finest of artificial limbs."
"Yeah, great," he muttered. He remembered Bent K'nobby's description of Barth Vapour—Lurk's father—as being "more machine than man." Must run in the family, he thought bitterly. He raised his hands—one real, one artificial—and glared at them. Then he frowned.
"So did you cut off my finger too?" he said calmly.
"The Doc did that," Libby told him. "It was gangrenous, and could not be saved."
"But, what, I don't get a robotic finger?" he asked.
Libby shook her head. "I'm afraid not. It's not practical, apparently. Something about the attachment point being too small."
Lurk nodded. "Right," he said quietly.
"Are you gonna be okay, buddy?" asked Mal.
"Bits of me are," said Lurk bitterly. "Although I guess we can just keep hacking bits off till there's nothing left."
"Hey, fine," said Mal, throwing his free hand in the air. "Forget I asked."
Lurk took a deep breath, then turned to stare at the other man's chest, and the white sling which held his arm against it. "Sorry," he said. "I'm just a bit ... overwhelmed. I'll be fine." He lifted his eyes to meet Mal's gaze. "Thanks for coming to get me. Thanks for saving my life. I appreciate it."
Mal shrugged, and winced as his shoulder rebelled against the movement. "You'd do the same for me," he said.
"Yeah," said Lurk. "I guess I would at that."
"Okay," said Libby. "Now, do you remember anything else?"
Lurk frowned at her. "No, nothing really. Just images. Dreams, nightmares, whatever. I was pretty much out of it, I think."
"Okay, no problem," said Libby.
"I saw Bent," said Lurk. "He told me to go to Daggyboil. Reminded me, rather; this is not the first time he's tried to send me there. I guess I should take off soon, see who I can find there."
"Must you?" It was Libby's turn to frown.
"Yeah," said Lurk slowly. "I think it's important."
"Well, if you..."
"Oh shit!" said Lurk loudly, interrupting her. "Bastard!"
"What..." began Libby.
"I just remembered. It was an Imperial Trooper. The guy who shot at me—the sniper."
"Are you sure?" asked Libby.
"I thought it was a dream at the time, nothing made any sense. He came in out of the blizzard to check on me, started searching through my jacket for ... I dunno. Identification, I guess." Lurk patted reflexively at his chest; of course he was only wearing pyjamas now.
"Are you sure it wasn't a dream?" asked Mal, but he nodded slowly. "I mean, if it was an Imperial Assassin, why did he leave you alive?" Mal had already voiced his own suspicions about the identity of the sniper.
Lurk nodded, and laughed. "He thought I was dead," explained Lurk. He held up his right hand. "He even checked my pulse. This thing may look and feel pretty real, but it's not that real!"
"So did he find anything?"
"I don't think so. Something scared him off. I guess that was you, Mal old buddy."
Mal shivered. He'd spent the night with an Imperial Assassin skulking around outside his tent.
Libby stood up. "It doesn't matter what he found, or didn't find, on Lurk. Our rescue transport had insignia on it which could possibly be traced back to the Rebel Coalition. Those 'speeders set the whole area ablaze, but we found no trace of anyone. Of course, an Imperial sniper would have full stealth armour; we could walk all round him and not know he was there unless we tripped over him." She hesitated, looking from Lurk to Mal and back again. "There's a good chance the Imperium knows we're here."
"Damn," said Mal. He stood too. "Get your strength back, kid," he said to Lurk. "You should be out of here in a few hours. Looks like we've got an evacuation to organise."
The recreation deck of the IPD Bermuda was abuzz with excitement.
"I heard they were issuing Arctic Combat Armour," said Bent Davyss, his voice raised over the background roar.
"Whitesuits?" said Karrn McKavern. "I hate those things, there's no room in them." She scowled.
"Yeah," agreed Bent, "and they're heavy too."
"Shouldn't worry you, Turtleboy," said Grunt Wheedle, a devilish twinkle in his eye. "It'd be just like a shell, wouldn't it?" Grunt was the leader of the squad of Shock Troopers—Team Daffodil—seated around the small table.
Bent sighed. From the moment the other members of the squad had learned that his favourite vidshow was a little-known classic named Turtleboy Returns to Uranus, they had teased him about it.
"I just hope they've got enough to go round," said Kumm Stolid. He paused to take a mouthful of beer, then shook his head. "Remember that debacle on Sikarra? I don't want to go into a fire fight in the snow with nothing but one of Aunt Nellie's knitted pullovers to keep me warm."
For a moment, silence fell over the table as each of them thought back to their last arctic exercise.
Of the four, three wore baggy combat fatigues and had their hair shorn to regulation length. Bent, with his spiky blond hair and his brown T-shirt, was the odd one out.
"They wouldn't do that to us," said Bent, but he didn't sound confident. "That was just a training mission, anyway. This is bigger than that."
"What makes you think they're any better organised this week?" asked Karrn. "I know I'm gonna be wearing an extra pair of socks, just to be safe."
"Sounds like a good idea," said Kumm.
"Where are we headed, anyway?" asked Bent. "Does anybody know?"
"You know they never tell us anything," said Grunt. "To be honest, I really don't care, so long as they aren't sending us to Uranus."
"That place stinks," Kumm added quickly before Bent could respond to this latest gibe.
"Ha fuckin' ha," said Bent, glaring around the table. "Y'know, jealousy is a curse."
"Jealousy?" queried Karrn cautiously, raising one eyebrow.
"I know you're all just jealous that my tastes are so much more refined than yours," said Bent. He ignored his team-mates' derisive snorts and continued. "Just because I recognise good, quality entertainment when I see it does not give you guys the right to..." His voice trailed into silence, and the others turned to follow his gaze. He stared unblinkingly at the young woman who had approached their table.
"Are you guys Team Daffodil?" asked the newcomer hesitantly.
"Gah," said Bent.
"Someone kick-start Bent," muttered Karrn.
"Who's asking?" asked Grunt.
The newcomer saluted smartly. "Private Dorn Stalwart, reporting for duty," she said.
Grunt returned the salute lazily. "I'm Lance Corporal Wheedle," he told her. "Reporting for what duty, exactly?"
"I'm here as your new Team member," she said.
"But we've got ... but that makes ... oh!"
"Someone kick-start Grunt," muttered Karrn. Aloud she said, "So you're our fifth, huh? Welcome to The Pot. Pull up a pew." She waved one hand idly in the air.
Dorn looked around, but there were no empty chairs nearby. "Um..." she said. Her brows furrowed.
"At least stand at ease," Karrn told her.
"Oh, yeah, stand easy," said Grunt. "Sorry. We weren't expecting anyone quite this quickly." He studied the confused expression on the standing woman's face for several seconds. "Any questions?" he asked at last.
"Uh, what is 'the pot'?" she asked.
"You'd have to ask Karrn," Grunt replied.
"We are the Pot," said Karrn. "It's our nickname, our collective term: the Pot of Daffodils."
"It's a long story," added Kumm helpfully.
"Don't worry," Karrn told her, "you'll fit right in in no time. Anyway, I'm Karrn. That's Grunt, that's Kumm, and the shy one over there is Turtleboy."
"Bent," said Bent. "Don't listen to them."
"Um," said Dorn.
"Um," said Grunt.
"Um," said Karrn.
"Um," said Kumm in agreement.
"So, uh," said Bent, "fire it up!"
The other four Troopers turned to stare at him. He shrugged, and grinned cheekily.