Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer

Yet again, we’re a long way from home. As usual, I get everyone’s attention with a short blast of the klaxon, which – also as usual – prompts a round of rude guesswork over the comm as the likelihood of me ever having another sex partner.
“You’re still not funny, people. We’re on approach to Macho. Get ready. You know how badly this could go wrong. Sarah, what’s the scan count?”
She chuckles.
“Emma, if the various scans were actual weapons, we’d have been sliced to bits. Macho hasn’t become any less paranoid.”
Jahnee snorts loudly.
“Something to do with them being declared a brigand planet, by any chance?”
They loot other worlds because they’ve poisoned their own. ‘Brigand’ is the polite definition.
A wide-hail comes in.
“This is Macho Defence Control. State your business, back off, or burn.”
Nice.
“This is free trader Bluehammer with over a tonne of Bushmills Céad Bliain. Heard you’re in the market.”
Since the trade embargoes clamped down, they haven’t had a drop of legally imported booze, and we’re betting they’ve had nothing of this quality.
“A tonne?”
“One point one five, and someone’s missing it, if you get my meaning.”
“We hear that, Bluehammer. Follow route four. What class are you?”
“Firefly with a Dillingham lift conversion.”
“Land in bay ten.”
“Gotcha, MDC. I presume a dealer will visit?”
“You bet.”
I grin at Jahnee.
“If the dealer arrives, you and Mike are owners aboard. The rest of us are fluffies. You know the drill.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Prepare countermeasures. Get targeting coordinates for their defences. If we’re there long enough, sell the Bushmills. When Queen Gladys Ewing arrives with her kids, we get them all off this hellhole.”
Natalie sticks her head through the doorway.
“Got confirmation the resistance are ready to drop indirect fire on the co-ordinates we supply.”
She shakes her head.
“A resistance movement on the planet of misogynists. Holy hell.”
Sarah chimes in.
“We’re here to help the royal family escape King Frederick. Gladys is off to raise a force to come back and liberate with extreme prejudice. Crown Prince Talon is a baby. Crown Princess Trixabelle is nearly what they call breeding age around here.”
I suppress a shudder. Not going to ask.
We land hard: must get the shock absorption units serviced.
“APC incoming!”
Already?
“It’s being pursued by two limousines. One of them has a bloke stood on its roof with a machine gun in each hand, shooting at the APC!”
Macho by name…
“Okay, I’m betting the APC is Team Queen, and the hecklers are Team King. Swat the goons.”
Somebody’s ready on fire control, because I hear the ‘whoosh-hiss’ of our beam cannon firing. There’s an explosion nearby.
“Took shooter boy off at the hips and turned the rear limo into a crater.”
“What about the front limo?”
“It’s just pulled a screaming U-turn, and is retreating faster than it arrived.”
Yeah. I’d run from a hostile beam cannon, too.
“Okay, get the cargo lift ready, but don’t lower it until we see who’s in the APC.”
It slides to a stop and nine people erupt from it, five women, three kids, and a baby.
“Load all! Sarah, push targeting data on the channels Natalie hopefully provided.”
Natalie shouts up.
“Cheeky mare! What do you think we are, amateurs?”
I laugh.
We’re from Bluebird, anonymously helping abuse victims escape to better lives. As we’re free traders operating under aliases, there’s minimal chance of the abusers tracking us.
“All boarded!”
This one’s going to make history, though.
“Taking off in three, two, one…”