Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer

There’s a crow talkin’ shit about me to the drone passing overhead on its way to Skiogar. On a good day I wouldn’t mind: bigots keep giving cybercorvids good reasons to hate us.
Today’s not a good day: been raining since midnight. Nothing out in the open needs more acid washing, and my umbrella is leaking. The pins between the fifth and sixth panels succumbed to corrosion faster than my warranty could keep up with. Be nice if the annual maintenance flagged weaknesses, but bottom-of-the-line servicing comes without status reports. If it’s broken, it gets fixed. Otherwise, it gets ignored. Then it all gets cleaned and returned to me in a cheap plastic bag labelled ‘GMS, a subsidiary of Edison’.
Coincidentally, Garbin Maintenance Services are why I’m sitting- Oi!
I flip into Beakspeak.
“My mother did her best, you feathered suppository. I turned out like this on my own. Leave her out of it.”
The crow backflips with a surprised squawk.
“Digits up my- a wiredup!”
The drone snaps a rude reply back in Flightvoc – which I understand, but can’t speak.
Pointing at its receding running lights, I comment to the crow while burst messaging a friend in flight control.
“Tell that rusting turd runner that it’s just hit the back of the landing priority queue.”
The crow cackles. It’s a disturbingly human noise.
“Won’t care. Hates everything, including me. So, wiredup, what’s your story? Don’t often come across humes, your kind or not, out here.”
I wonder…
“You in service?”
The raggedy-feathered cyborg sidles closer. Our headwear links with less static that I expected.
“I’m freewing. Name’s Maddar. Ex-Ravenkeep, took demob at obsolescence.”
A former recce beak out here?
“I’m Leone. Survived Rheinmetal-Bardas.”
The head tilts.
“You get out before the takeover?”
I gesture to the wasteland about us.
“You think I’d be out here if I had options? Took me ages to recover from their attempt to erase the illegal programs from my headwear. Luckily I disconnected before they got all of them, else I’d be as dead as my unit. Compensation barely paid for my rebuild. It’s basic, but I get by.”
“You got spare batteries for that cannon?”
I pat my Webley & Stokes Reaper; the other thing they didn’t get.
“Yup. What’s it to you?”
A wing lifts. I see an embedded countermeasures dish.
“Been a while since I was nearer the whole package, you know? Maybe I can trade?”
If Maddar’s local, he could save me time.
“You can. Top of my wants: seen anything sporting GMS branding around here?”
“Every month. One basic packboy. Small load, but moves like it’s heavy.”
“This month?”
“Due in an hour.”
I get a battery out and angle the umbrella so Maddar can load it dry. – It always spooks me when a cybercorvid reveals arms, even when I’m ready for it.
Maddar retracts the arms and smoothes its feathers down.
“I’m back – and was inaccurate. Packboy incoming from the west.”
I draw the Reaper, slide the selector to ‘anti-machine’, then let my headwear synchronise aiming with my optics.
My shot beheads the packboy stomping along our side of the culvert.
Maddar caws approvingly.
“Tidy.”
I kick the wreck into the culvert, then open the pack. It’s full of heavy-duty batteries, the sort used by roaming sentry arrays.
Maddar chuckles.
“Sentries don’t fight so well on low battery.”
I grin.
“Not my problem. Intercepting the shipment was the op. I even get to keep what I make selling these.”
Maddar extends an arm.
“You can afford to hand over another battery, then.”
Pushy, but fair.