Space Bus: The Pilot

EPILOGUE

"Audalang Sinclair," The badger says, "at your service." Audalang tips a small bowler hat politely to no one in particular. The robots exchange glances.

<TWO NAMES?>

"Yes, two names." Audalang says, placing a small leather satchel down on the deck beside him.

"And they both represent the interests of the Grand Galactic Fire, Casualty, and Indemnity Co., your insurance company—I just came in on a Space Bus special-charter out of Grand Central. I could really do with a warm hand towel and a bottle of water. Also, be a dear and let your admiral know I've made it aboard safe and sound. Here are my credentials." Audalang hands the robot on the right a metal badge the size of a small turtle shell.

"Gentlemen, I don't mean to be rude but I haven't got all day."

***

They are riding together on a sloop encased in a plastiglass bubble. On one side is Audulang Sinclair and the ensign, on the other is raw vacuum. If the small creature in the bowler hat is intimidated by the presence of a black-clad warbot, he doesn't show it. To the contrary, Audalang seems to relish its apparent discomfort.

<WE WERE NOT EXPECTING YOU.> The ensign says. The government's interests are represented by a single, lowly officer. Audulang suspects this is intentional.

"That's odd," Audulang replies, "You robots are normally so efficient." The ensign remains silent. "I'd have started preparing for my arrival from the moment we sent your superiors notice of our intent to investigate your claim."

The ensign is either well-disciplined or very bored. Robots are always bored, so Audulang knows this one has been ordered to keep quiet.

"The destruction of the HMS Thunderclap caused a sixteen point dip in the Capital Sector corporate-share-exchange." He says, fishing. The robot fiddles silently with the controls, bringing them a little closer to their target.

As a rule, robots are culturally disinclined towards socializing with organically occurring personalities—but the ensign's orders are clear. Do whatever the insurance man asks, take as much time as he needs, and say as little as possible.

<AS YOU CAN SEE> The ensigns replies, finally, as it navigates the sloop near a chunk of wreckage. <THE T-5180'S SUNDRIVE PROPULSION SYSTEM APPEARS TO HAVE FAILED, CAUSING A CATASTROPHIC EXPLOSION.>

Audalang ignores the robot, staring through a personal viewfinder instead. The inspection sloop is a giant bubble with a small outboard motor. It's designed, as its name implies, for inspections.

"Here," Audalang says, "what does that look like to you?" The robot is silent for a moment.

<A PIECE OF WRECKAGE?> It answers, hesitantly.

"Yes, but is there anything particularly unusual about this piece of wreckage?" Audalang presses. The ensign takes the viewfinder from Mr. Sinclair, and considers the piece of debris he's highlighted.

<I SEE NOTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY.> It replies, cryptically.

"Ah," Audalang smiles, "And that is why I am the adjuster and you are the spacer. These scorch marks suggest an inward blast pattern—as though something punched through the outside of the bus before it's engines blew up." Audulang seems grimly satisfied, but now the ensign is angry.

<OUR POLICY COVERS ASTEROID COLLISIONS. YOU ARE SEARCHING FOR ANY REASON TO DENY OUR CLAIM.> It says.

Audalang pushes his hat to the back of his head and pulls his small pair of spectacles from the tip of his snout. He looks the robot in the eye, "And ensign, do you know how much that claim is worth?" The robot officer says nothing. "12 trillion wuolongs. That's the gross-domestic-product of most planets. Can your processor even count that high?" The robot reaches into a box and produces a small device.

<ALL OF OUR OFFICIAL FINDINGS ARE HERE. WE ALREADY PROVIDED YOUR COMPANY A COPY OF THESE DAYS AGO.> Audulang shakes his head, and brings the viewfinder back to his eyes.

<THIS WAS AN ACCIDENT.> The officer presses, nervous. The badger is more insistent than they said he would be. <THIS WAS A MECHANICAL FAILURE.> The ensign continues, displaying a slide from their findings on several nearby monitors. Audulang ignores this, and he ignores the ensign now, too. He turns slowly, dipping the viewfinder occasionally to take something in with his naked eye. "There," Audulang says, "What is that?" He hands the viewfinder to the ensign again, who zooms in on the section of space Audulang is pointing too.

<OH. I HAVEN'T SEEN THAT BEFORE.>

***

<THERE IS AN OBVIOUS EXPLANATION FOR ALL OF THIS.> The Admiral says, furious. Its uniform is black, too, but there are a lot of little glittery bits hanging from its shoulders and chest. Audulang paces around the wreckage. It's a boarding shuttle, the kind used to transport troops from ship to ground—or from ship to hostile ship.

This one's front hatch has been blown away. The words HMS Thunderclap are painted down the side in a smooth, official script. Audulang squats next to the shuttle's punctured frontend and stares inside. There are a dozen robots, including a captain model, chained together with prisoner's shackles. No one attempted to reseal the door before the shuttle was jettisoned from whatever it had been attached to. The robots are frozen, their processors long dead. Audulang laughs.

"Yes, I'd say there's a pretty obvious explanation, too. Someone destroyed your very expensive spaceship on purpose." If the blood could drain from a robot's face, the Admiral would look like a vampire.

<YOU CAN'T PROVE THAT.> It says, desperation crawling into its voice.

"Oh yes I can, and when I do, the Grand Galactic Fire, Casualty, and Indemnity Co. will refuse to pay your masters a single ruby red wuolong. Thank you Admiral."

The little badger doffs his threadbare hat.

"I've seen enough."