January 8, 2010

Calliope Cervantes slammed the man’s face against the ground, twice. His nose bled profusely, but she didn’t feel sorry for him; he HAD tried to slice her arm off with a nanofilament sword.

“A sword,” she muttered. “I mean, come on.”

She slipped restraining cuffs over his hands, activating the antigrav so that he was pulled up to hang in mid-air like some ancient religious icon. Normally she would have used a belt, but this was more uncomfortable.

She left him, grumbling about his rights, with the indenture agent at the nearest IRS office.

“Have fun terraforming Titan, you miserable twat,” she cooed, wiggling her fingers at him in a mocking wave.

“You don’t have to be a bitch, Cal,” a voice said behind her.

“That’s like saying you don’t have to be a robot, Mack,” she replied, turning to face him. “We can’t help what we are.”

“Doing this job every day has made you a hard woman.”

“I was already the hardest, that’s why they gave me the job.” She yawned. “Now who do I have to shoot to get some coffee?”


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